


On Leave

by thomasin



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, Mpreg, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2018-11-13 07:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11180262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thomasin/pseuds/thomasin
Summary: Eve answers on the second ring.‘Is this a ‘congratulations’ conversation or an ‘I’ll pick you up from the clinic’ conversation?’‘The former.’The unmistakeable sound of crockery smashing clatters down the phone.





	1. Chapter 1

For failure and notable service alike, MI6’s memory is unknowably elastic. On the upper floors, greying faces can be recognised as having been rather too close to that fellow in ‘78 who leaked a small forest’s worth of military reports to Yugoslavian friends, or known for blunders in Nairobi that lost them a brace of promising moles. Their mistakes having been forgiven, or their past oversight now handily overseen itself, they trickle along steady paths toward CBEs and quiet cottages on Anglesey. While in the lower reaches, humbled in lowly pen-pushing positions if still employed at all, are those who might otherwise have been thanked for neatly maintaining a hair’s breadth between embarrassing affairs and the ears of the British press, or for effecting aversion of a minor nuclear holocaust.

Max understands all this at least as well as any of his colleagues, so he must admit that recognition for his role in dismantling Nine Eyes has been as universal as he could hope. Since November, other - well, _his fellow_ \- section heads have been stopping him on the way out of meetings or in corridors to shake is hand and confess with less deliberate blandness than usual that things ‘could have gone rather badly’. Some (the less greying) even come to his office to deliver their congratulations and dole out further diabolical understatements.

On each occasion, once he’s detached his own palm from theirs and found it drifting to his still-flat stomach, he is reminded that he’s ticking off names from a finite list; once every hand has been shaken and shoulder grasped, this cloud of gratitude will disperse and the next crisis will descend. The grace period may last a week or the rest of his career - and there’s always the possibility that the two are synonymous - and he’s a fool if he doesn’t take advantage of the goodwill while it still presents itself.

He thinks all this several times for a few weeks, then requests a meeting with M and Tanner. He arrives three minutes late with a fresh cup of tea to hand, and smiles warmly as he takes his seat.

‘I’ll be taking a year off, starting at the end of June.’

Mallory blinks, but otherwise remains impassive.

Max suspects wavering eye contact will be read as a sign of weakness - he doesn’t glance to Bill.

‘I’m pregnant - due in July - and I’ll be taking the full parental leave allowance stipulated in my contract. Of course, I won’t be completely uncontactable for the duration: if there are any cyber security code reds then I will log in to help repel the attack.’

 _And that’s the most you’ll get from me_.

‘I wanted to give you the most warning possible.’

He smiles again and takes a slurp of tea.

There’s a moment’s pause before M says ‘Your contract...?’ and looks to Tanner, rather as one hoping to negotiate a speeding ticket with a Parisian police officer looks to the friend who claims to have done A-level French.

‘Ah,’ says Tanner.

Ah indeed.

There’s a popular rumour in the Service - or at least, moderately popular among those under-worked enough to theorise extensively on the career history of the higher-ups - that the current Quartermaster was coerced to the position rather than promoted to it. It’s a notion not entirely without logic; given his quick rise through the ranks and what’s known about his background, he could well have been caught tampering with one government firewall too far and been man-hunted from a gloomy basement rather than headhunted from Imperial.

And he supposes M can be forgiven for temporarily forgetting the finer details of how HR sourced his Quartermaster: it’s been a vicious period since he took the helm at Vauxhall; he spent what in any normal job would have been the honeymoon period rebuilding headquarters, attempting to fend off Denbigh’s insidious reforms, failing to do so, and - finally, with the help of present company - staging a minor coup d’etat by overriding a democratically agreed international security system in the name of actual democracy and international security.

Max supposes Mallory has stooped to imaging his contract negotiations as some kind of an ‘ _it’s us or extradition to China, pretty boy’_ offer. Probably in front of a two-way mirror.

But Tanner knows better.

‘Ah. Yes,’ Tanner clears his throat. ‘Sir, Q’s contract has the same enhanced parental leave provision as all higher-level staff.’

‘Of course,’ says M, valiantly unruffled.

He turns back to Max, and his eyes are as pale and sharp as January. His forehead wrinkles begin to reappear.

‘I suppose there’s nothing I can do to change your mind.’

And there’s the disappointment that, knowing it would weigh more heavily on him than most negotiation tactics, Max had steeled himself against.

‘If I may speak honestly, sir-’

M inclines his head.

‘I’ve only been Quartermaster for two years so I don’t expect you to be anything other than royally ticked off about this, and if you really wish you could find some watertight pretext to haul me back earlier or push me out entirely, I’d be powerless to stop you. But if I have any say in the matter - and, since everyone in the building and the better half of Whitehall know that I’ve scaled Shit Mountain in roller skates twice for this job, I rather suspect that I _do_ \- I’ll be taking the year.

After that, it’ll be business as usual. And I’ll still have twenty five years on every other section head in the joint security services.’

His tea is still pleasingly hot as he has another sip.

He enjoys the brief moment of silence before M casts his eyes to the ceiling and Tanner lets out a snort.

‘Yes, well,’ allows M. ‘Very impressive.’

‘I _am_ very impressive, sir,’ Max smiles from behind the cup.

M huffs out a squeaky sigh. His face’s simultaneous attempt at sad and fond is commendable. Or perhaps his lunch hasn’t agreed with him - so difficult to tell with these military types.

’Consider your request granted. Well, I say request…’

Max blinks. He had been expecting a little more bartering than this - hell, he’d been willing to at least throw in reviewing new schematics from home for the latter six months. Perhaps he should be offended.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Oh, no need to look so surprised. The moment for feigning modesty has long since passed. The finer details can be arranged in due course.’

He glances to Tanner for acquiescence. Tanner duly nods before addressing Max.

‘Q, I’m sure you’re aware - we’re going to need a little more information-’

If he hadn’t prepared for this there’s a strong chance the subject would have made him red to his hairline. But he knew the question was coming and, truth be told, he’d suffered far more invasive questions about his sex life during the vetting process for the job.

‘Who the other father is, you mean. Yes, not sure I can be of much help on that front,’ says Max, aiming for breeziness without flippancy. ‘We had a very brief encounter in the bathroom of Dusty’s in Stoke Newington three months ago - I’d struggle to give you even a basic description, I’m afraid. Did a quick check myself but the club has no interior CCTV to go on. I have no objections to you looking into it yourselves.’

M does an admirable, but ultimately unconvincing, job of looking as though this is all completely par for the course, but Bill nods along, face impassive. You can see him, flipping through potential methods for identifying Max’s unwitting co-conspirator, then discarding each one in turn as a monumental waste of government resource. He’ll save up his real comments - and you know they’re forming too, they’re just better concealed - for their next trip to the pub.

Christ, what will he order at the pub now? Will he be one of those squares who gets soda and lime?

A final nod. ‘Right. Well let’s face it, as long as he’s in the dark the chances of him posing a security threat are virtually nil. If you do happen to make contact at any point, inform me immediately and we’ll go from there. I’ll contact HR and we’ll sort out the rest.’

‘Very good,’ says M. ‘Well, I suspect the paperwork will be an albatross around all of our necks for some time yet, but I think that’s all for now.’

Max nods and rises, but is prevented from leaving by M standing and holding out a hand.

‘Max. May I offer my most sincere congratulations. You’ll make an excellent father.’

Faced with this unusual warmth, Max’s icy confidence of a few minutes before trickles out and pools around his feet. M has relaxed into that pleased, fatherly presence - usually seen once a year, at most - that can make even prime ministers and heads of state feel uniquely cherished, and he looks like he genuinely means what he says.

Max takes the proffered hand and his smile is in danger of becoming watery when he flashes it in return to Mallory’s.

‘Thank you, sir. Well. We’ll see about that.’

He’s not one for doing things badly: his whole life, he’s been excellent or he hasn’t bothered at all. It occurs to him that this time, he’ll be soldiering on regardless.

 

Bill claps him on the back - no more lightly than normal - as they head out to the lift.

‘Mallory’s right you know,’ he grins. Then a haze passes over his face and he looks into the distance for a moment. ‘Though god help us all when that child learns how to use a laptop.’

‘Oh, don’t pretend to be worried,’ sighs Max, punching the down arrow. ‘You’re already putting his name down on a recruitment list, I can tell.’

Bill’s eyebrows lift. ‘ _His_?’

Max can see an office betting pool mustering on the horizon. He decides to head it off at a pass.

‘Slip of the tongue,’ he says quickly. ‘I plan on raising them gender-neutral.’

Tanner allows one eyebrow to drop back to it’s normal level, the other still very much in the middle of his forehead, and ushers him out of the lift.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to try harder than that.’

Well. Not to worry; he’s got half a year to sell that one in.

In the lift, there’s moment of silence before Bill half-clears his throat.

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Max cuts him off. ‘But I really don’t know. If I had anything to go on, I’d have contacted you and Control for a background check weeks ago.’

He knew the question would be asked - his explanation had gone down much too smoothly in M’s office to have been believed. But regardless of how truthful his answer is, he knows better than to think the question won’t raise itself again, in some form or other.

Not for the first time, he wishes that he had been better at performing his flaws since arriving at MI6. It seems that they’ve all been mistaking him for immaculately sensible, and it makes them suspicious when he demonstrates that he’s quite human.

 

***

 

Telling his parents is slightly less comfortable. To avoid the unnecessary stress of multiple Announcements, he invites them up to London along with his brother and sister, goes to Waitrose, and plans to lob the conversational grenade at them after a few bottles of wine that claim to go well with lasagne.

Unfortunately, even the act of scheduling of the visit has raised suspicions. As he greets his parents and Lydia at King’s Cross, his mother squeezes him, then looks around conspicuously.

‘Everything alright, Mum?’ Though he barely dares ask.

‘She’s wondering where your boyfriend is,’ supplies Lydia, swinging her backpack off her shoulder and holding it out. ‘Here, take this. My shoulder hurts.’

‘My boyfriend,’ repeats Max, darkly.

‘I assume that's why we're here,’ breezes his mother. ‘You never invite us all at once. Will we meet him at dinner? You’re not engaged are you?’

Whether she’s hopeful or dismayed is unknowable. His father smiles apologetically from behind them, but though he may be less theatrical than his wife, Max hadn’t missed him looking around before either.

‘Much as I hate to spoil your grounds for being outraged at me before the weekend has even begun: no, there is no boyfriend, fiancé, or husband that I have been keeping from you.’

Lydia masks her disappointment by fishing her phone out her pocket and ostentatiously not looking where she’s going as he leads them out to a cab.

They all settle into the flat, Mum and Dad asking him about work, and Lydia magnanimously approving of the spare bedroom’s new wallpaper. But the atmosphere is expectant; he finds himself asking far more questions about their news than he would usually consider, just to dodge any silences that he might be assumed to fill.

By the time Adrian and Molly arrive and he’s able to scamper away to greet them, Max has got himself into such a flap about avoiding suspicion that he’s poured out a glass of wine for himself and started pretending to drink it.

Adrian pulls his relieved form into a rough embrace, claps him on the back, and says ‘Christ, it smells like heaven in here Maxy. Is this new man of yours a cook?’

He thrusts another bottle of wine into Max’s hands, shows himself into the living room, and, by way of greeting, loudly tells Lydia that her nose piercing looks shit.

Max and Molly are left in the hallway; she kisses him on the cheek, squeezes his arm, and asks how he is in a way that makes him think she might plausibly, just possibly be alright with hearing an answer other than ‘Yeah, good thanks.’

He says ‘Yeah, good thanks’ anyway, and offers to take her coat.

Back with the others, Adrian has commandeered the conversation, describing the drive from Dulwich to Max’s flat as though he’s narrating a boy’s adventure novel. Like everything about Adrian, it should be tiresome but is inexplicably quite the opposite. Molly sits with her hand on his knee and occasionally cuts in with dry comments that would deflate anyone more precious.

Max tops up everyone’s wine then retreats to the kitchen, declining his parents’ offers of help. He takes a seat by the counter and rests his head on the marble top, letting it cool his cheek and forehead.

When he sits up he can see the lasagne gurgling and bubbling out the dish in the oven. He’s forgotten to put foil on the rung below, and he can already anticipate the scouring battle he’ll have to wage against the encrusted bechamel sauce tomorrow.

He supposes he ought not to delay the inevitable.

‘Dinner’s ready!’ he yells. 

 

Lydia spits her mouthful out onto her plate, but then that might just be because it’s hot. He can see the half-chewed garlic bread in Ade’s mouth. Dad lets out a strange snorting noise.

‘Oh no.’ Says his mother. ‘Really?’

He’d assumed that the nausea would abate once he’d finally just said it, but the likelihood of vomiting does not seem to be decreasing.

‘Three months along,’ he says, stretching out a smile that will have to be pinned on with clothes pegs if he wants it to stay.

The interminable silence that follows probably only lasts eight seconds, twelve at most.

‘Are you keeping it?’ asks Lydia. A bit of her hair is dipping into the recently-ejected semi-masticated lump.

‘Don’t be dense, Lydia,’ says Adrian. ‘He’s hardly invited us all round for dinner to hand out save-the-date cards for his abortion.’

There’s a momentary pause, like Ade’s zapped them all with a stun gun. Max can see his parents gearing up to shout at Adrian, but he feels his own lips irrepressibly twitching and his shoulders starting to shake. When he dissolves into an unattractive mess of snorting laughter, Molly and Lydia swiftly follow him over.

Lydia becomes half-hysterical then recovers herself enough to say ‘I cannot believe you just brought up _abortion_ Adrian, oh my god.’

‘I think you’ll find _you_ just brought up abortion Lydia,’ says Ade, throwing a bread-crust at her.

‘Can you all just stop talking about abortion, for christ’s sake,’ snaps Mum. ‘Let your brother speak. Max, please explain.’

The laughter fades to make way for the cross examination.

‘I fail to see what else you’re entitled to hear,’ says Max, and immediately regrets it. He can hear himself sounding like the little know-it-all that had so often put him at odds with her and Lydia, and sometimes even Dad and Ade; buttoning himself up to be as smug and impenetrable as possible, winning the fight by being smarter, even when everyone including himself could see he was in the wrong.

Already he can see his mother and everyone else at the table  tensing, deciding whether to battle on and pry some kind of detail out of him, or whether to apologise and let him stew until he gives her an answer.

He relents.

‘Sorry. Sorry. What else would you like to know?’ Though he knows very well what blanks she’d like filled in. He’s sure he won’t ever be able to tell her that he’d like them filled in too.

‘We’re just a bit surprised,’ says Dad. He reaches across the table, and the distance is awkward but, when he grips Max’s hand, the touch isn’t. ‘But we’re all very happy for you.’ He looks around at everyone, meaningfully

There are murmurs of agreement from around the table.

Max squeezes back and wonders if he should mumble out a thank you. He looks down at his untouched food. When he glances up again, Mum is looking a little uncomfortable.

‘Of course we are,’ she rushes out. ‘We’re delighted.’

Max knows she’s as embarrassed for not having thought to say it first as she is annoyed at having to say something she considers so plain to see. A dislike for lowering oneself to being _obvious_. Not a snobbery that he can claim to be innocent of.

And neither can he blame her for not jumping to say congratulations, or the rest of them for that matter. If it had been Lydia to break the same news, shock and indignation and _surely having babies is for grown-ups_ would have been his first response. Uncertain happiness might have been his second. Joy waits to reside in a more settled constitution.

He squeezes again then retracts his hand. Restrains himself from fiddling with the tableware.

‘The other father isn’t in the picture, as you might have guessed,’ he admits, to his placemat. ‘But financially it won’t be an issue, and I’ve got a full year’s leave to work out childcare arrangements and so forth.’

He brings himself to look up and finds nothing in their faces that signals either relief or disappointment, only deliberate looks of encouragement.

‘But really, I just.’ He shrugs. ‘I’m old enough, and I have the means. And if I don’t do it now then who knows if I ever will. And one of us needs to produce some grandchildren for the two of you-’ he jerks his head at his parents, ‘-and it’s for the good of society if Adrian doesn’t disseminate his DNA into the human gene pool, so I’ve taken on the burden.’

‘Well said, little brother,’ says Ade, solemnly. He raises his glass. ‘To Maximilian, and his future spawn.’

They all follow suit, reaching for their wine glasses and tilting them toward him.

Lydia pauses, frowns at him.

‘Hang on. You should _not_ be drinking that.’

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after a good year of lurking around this fandom, I figured it was time to post a fic. Updates will follow - they're set to be a tad smuttier, but by and large I wanted to do a character study of Q. 
> 
> ...Are mpreg character studies a thing?


	2. Chapter 2

Jen pokes her head into his office before lunch with a new outfitting brief for him to sign off.

004 and 007 have been assigned bodyguard duty for a ministerial event in a few days and will require standard kits.

‘Bit below their pay grade, isn’t it?’ Max muses.

‘They’re useful show ponies for trotting out in front of that oily MOD lot,’ says Jen. ‘Khalil won’t have been hard to convince - he quite likes work events for some reason.’

Jen’s visits to his office are always a pleasure; she’s young enough that she’s never sniffed at him, and very good at her job so he doesn’t worry about liking her too much then making it awkward when he gives her a shit appraisal. And she has a talent for succinctly eviscerating the more farcical nuances of working in government in her north-eastern monotone.

‘Shame the same can’t be said for Bond,’ says Max, signing on the dotted line.

‘I think M’s trying to keep Bond’s tail between his legs, since he’s come crawling back. Anyway, he’ll be alright so long as the tab’s big enough, if Moneypenny’s birthday was anything to go by.’

‘Moneypenny didn’t pay for our drinks,’ he says automatically - if they want it to continue, Eve’s ability to stretch the definition of ‘essential food and travel expenses’ on the finance system is best left unacknowledged during office hours.

But wait.

No.

‘Yeah, and I imagine that’s what M thinks too. Don’t worry; if it comes out, you can say that you got so shitfaced you couldn’t tell it was a company card she was flashing,’ Jen grins. ‘Fair play to you though, you keep your act together almost as well as the double-ohs when you’re wasted. Didn’t even realise how guttered you were until you called me Wendy.’

‘Who the fuck is Wendy?’ says Max. ‘No, wait, never mind.’ Deep breath. ‘Bond was at Moneypenny’s birthday?’

‘Yeah,’ Jen shrugs. ‘It was a bit weird. But they’re friends aren’t they? Fuckin’ hell, how drunk were you?’

Shit shit shit.

‘Moneypenny and I may have had some ill-advised pre-drinks. I believe sambuca was involved.’

‘Well that would explain it.’

Yes it fucking would.

‘Quite.’

There’s no need to panic, not really. There’s absolutely no evidence to suggest that Bond was-. No, it could have been any number of people. A total stranger is still most likely.

God, what has his life become that that’s a comfort?

He’ll have to think about this later. If he starts acting like a weirdo at work then he’ll just arouse suspicion. Already Jen might put two and two together if she remembers this conversation in six months’ time and does the maths…

Shit.

‘Right well, thanks for the debrief.’ He manages a wry smile. ‘Book in 004 and 007’s kits to be ready for supply on Thursday afternoon. And tell them to piss off when they try to pick up the guns early.’

‘With pleasure.’

 

The rest of the afternoon passes well enough. Placing extraneous personal concerns under lock and key during working hours is a regular requirement of the job, so Max voluntarily takes over comms on a particularly risky mission in Bahrain, then looks at the year-ahead budget for long enough that his blood pressure rises to an acceptably distracting level.

But it’s a quiet day and eventually the amount of stimulating work to bury oneself in runs dry. He refuses to lower himself to killing time by attempting to zero-inbox so he heads for the tube with a podcast jammed in his ears in an attempt to quell the mounting panic.

It doesn’t really begin to peak until he’s squashed in under someone’s armpit between Oxford Circus and Warren Street, and finds that he’s repeating to himself that, honestly, he hadn’t lied to M and Tanner – no one can say otherwise.

He can recall only patchy details of his encounter that night. The details include memories of an impressive bulk pressing him against the cubicle wall, and the sense that he was with someone older and gruffer than himself. At a push he would have said fair-haired. He remembers enjoying himself.

Eve answers the phone on the second ring.

Once he establishes she’s at home rather than the office he cuts straight to the chase and tells her he’s pregnant. There’s a pause, either her deciding to sound surprised even though she’s already worked it out from something M has said to her, or her actually being surprised.

She’s entirely composed when she speaks.

‘Is this a ‘congratulations’ conversation or an ‘I’ll pick you up from the clinic’ conversation?’

‘The former.’

The unmistakeable sound of crockery smashing clatters down the phone.

So she hadn’t suspected. He’s strangely disconcerted - surely Eve knows what’s going on at all levels of government, in every department, purely from the pattern of visitors to M’s office and the memos she’s asked to type up?

Her omnipotence is less omnipotent than he had thought, but she’s still his best shot of verifying this new and horrifying hypothesis.

He relays the circumstances of the conception, including his description – such as it is – of the sperm donor and excluding any mention of 007. He recounts his explanation for failed contraception: the stomach virus he had had for the three days before her birthday, the panic that he didn’t remember having used a condom, the visit to his GP and the PEP side effects that meant yet more vomiting.

It’s not an excuse he felt the need to offer Tanner and M, but it all pours out of him like an apology now.

He finishes, and there’s a pause.

‘You don’t think,’ Eve hesitates. ‘Look, I don’t want to worry you. But you don’t think it might have been Bond do you?’

‘Eve.’ His disobedient voice cracks. ‘I didn’t even remember him being there.’

He didn’t account for this. Really, he didn’t.

Not for sitting at his kitchen table, crying soundlessly as Eve tells him, in a tone devoid of panic or implication, that even though he was better by her birthday, he would likely still have been infectious.

Not for hearing that Bond had also been disqualified for a mission two days after her birthday due to norovirus -  that until now she had assumed he’d faked it in order to buy time to prepare for his ‘holiday’ to Mexico a few days later.

Not for allowing himself to be reassured like a child that it doesn’t prove anything, that she saw them talking a few times during the night but that there’s nothing in the rumour mill about him and Bond being over-friendly.

That it doesn’t change anything. That he should still do this if he wants.

He asks her how he could have been so stupid - how he could have failed to clock that after having kept nothing but tap water down for days on end, going out on the lash on his first day of recovery was bound to result in borderline alcohol poisoning? That the side effectives of emergency retrovirals were bound to force the emergency contraception out of his system just as fast as norovirus had hammered out the non-emergency kind.

But what he really wants to ask if how he could have convinced himself this was some kind of get-out-of-jail free insemination; no relationship, no ‘are you in or out?’ ultimatum, no visits every other weekend.

As if he’d stumbled on a fifty pound note in an empty street, and his ticket to parenthood was in the bag.

He remembers the burning curiosity of childhood – reading countless books with tragic orphan protagonists and convincing himself that his parents were imposters who’d taken him in after his real (likely magical) mother and father had been killed by an unknown villain – rooting through his parents’ drawers and under their bed, looking for evidence of secrets and betrayals – directly asking them if he was adopted, because he was so much cleverer than his brother and sister that he _must_ be.

Well, not such a clever boy now; to think he’d half convinced himself that in six years’ time when his doubtless equally curious child would ask who his other daddy was, they’d be satisfied with a shrug and a ‘these things don’t really matter’ from Max.

Lydia had always claimed to be the more emotionally intelligent sibling. He'd dismissed it as an unimpressive skill for so long.

‘You know, Bond will remember,’ Eve cuts through his meltdown. She offers it as a solution, and Max has to hold himself back from shrieking incredulity. ‘It would take a lot more than happy hour on an empty stomach to make him black out.’

Max snorts.

‘Oh yes, I can just imaging asking him: “Hello 007, standard issue Walther and earpiece for your assignment. By the way, did we have grimy unprotected sex in a toilet cubicle around fourteen weeks ago? No? Oh well, must have been some other drunk meathead who’s old enough to be my father. Have fun in Budapest!”’

‘He might say yes.’

Her words hover for a moment, before drifting gently to the ground. He might say yes.

‘I fail to see how that’s better.’

If, in this hideous parallel universe where Max would even consider bringing this disaster up in Bond’s presence, Bond does say yes - and for all that Max would like today to be the day that logic and reason abandon him, he knows that it’s looking increasingly likely that he would - then that would mean that for the past three months, Bond has known.

He nearly drops the phone.

Bond has known. Bond has sauntered into Q Branch, asked for the moon on the string, and got it. He’s lied to Max and stolen from him. He’s had them all risk their careers and their lives for him, and all the while he’s thought that he was asking it of a man who’d bent over a toilet cistern and dropped trou for him on a night out.

What must Max have looked like, when he’d flown to Austria barely two weeks later, begging Bond to come back, and instead ending up doing the man’s bidding yet again? A lovesick teenager? Or a sad little floozy, gagging for more of Bond’s magical prick.

And to think that when his palpable desperation had been too much to bear he’d actually handed Bond the getaway vehicle!

Max had thought that Bond’s obstinance at every turn during the Oberhauser affair had borne the markings of 007’s irritating brand of almost-respectful disagreement; he might not have obeyed his friends or heeded their advice, but until now Max had believed that they had all at least tempered his impulses. That when Bond had stolen from him and abandoned them all on the bridge he hadn’t done so lightly, but with a well-disguised regret that _this was the only way_.

He’d allowed himself to think that Bond’s callousness was the surface level of something more substantial. He’d believed they actually were something approaching friends.

Bond might say yes.

Well, he might. And Max would know better now.

 


	3. Chapter 3

In March, 007 returns from a job in Qatar and strolls into Q’s office without knocking. He stands in the doorway, legs apart and arms folded, like a clothing hanger without a hook.

‘Ah, 007,’ Max barely looks up from his screen. ‘Do sit down.’

Bond pauses before taking a seat, but if he notices his Quartermaster’s altered shape he clearly doesn’t feel secure enough in his assessment to mention it yet.

Bond may be a berk at the best of times but even he knows better than to risk calling one of his superior officers fat by accident.

He pulls off his leather gloves, folds them and lays them on the desk. Bond’s eyes don’t waver from Max’s face as he arbitrarily re-words an email before acknowledging Bond properly.

The assignment has gone well enough that Bond has brought his equipment back intact, and in an unusual show of team spirit he’s actually showed up to go through Max’s questions on how the new additions to the kit had fared.

When the questioning is over and notes taken, Max halts Bond when he goes to stand.

He clears his throat, and it sounds like an orchestra tuning up.

‘As you may have heard, I’ll be on parental leave by the time the finished products are rolled out, so you’ll be reporting to R on the performance of the prototypes from now on, as she’ll be picking this up.’

Max knows there’s no way he’s heard anything of the sort. Bond has been gone for weeks and Tanner is hardly the type to send out a ‘Remember to congratulate the Quartermaster!’ email when he works in an organisation of spies who should rightly be sacked for failing to determine a pregnancy using their own powers of observation.

An eyebrow twitches.

‘Congratulations,’ Bond drawls. He doesn’t bother to look as though he might mean it. ‘When are you due?’

‘Mid-July.’

He takes care not to waver in his approach. This has to be done, he reminds himself. He just needs to cast the facts out and see if Bone bites.

Bond tightens in his seat.

‘You and your partner must be very pleased.’

‘No, no partner. Just me.’ He doesn’t let his eyes shift from Bond’s, or allow any pretense of levity into his voice.

Bond’s jaw barely moves when he responds. Judging from the way that his face is only just icing over and his body is vibrating as he processes what he’s hearing, Bond had assumed - where any other man would have settled for _hoping_ \- that a routine process of elimination would dispose of what he suspected when he walked in and saw his quartermaster’s altered waistline.

A wiser man would have been shitting himself from the moment he walked in the door and done the simple addition. But of course Bond’s arrogance has spared him from the worry until the last possible moment.

‘A one night stand, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have a lot of them, do you?’

It’s not an unfair question, really. Maybe he does. Maybe he spends most Fridays, hitting bars and getting some, or nailing all the field agents on rotation. Maybe he’s out every Tuesday-fucking-lunchtime, glutting himself on Grindr. There’s no earthly reason why he shouldn’t be; he’s no blushing virgin.

But what rankles, really rankles - more than Bond sneering at him like he’s a 1950s secretarial-pool tart who needs to be taught a lesson, more than the rancid hypocrisy from a man that’s had more casual shags than hot dinners - is the suggestion that he would even consider bringing this shitshow to Bond’s doorstep if there were a line-up of other potential candidates.

As if he’s bringing this to Bond and saying _fingers crossed it’s yours_ instead of _I’d rather it had been literally anybody but you_.

Max itches to grab the Walther from his desk drawer and aim it at Bond’s crotch. He’s momentarily certain than no amount of training, combat experience, or previous exposure to torture could save Bond if he did.

_Have a lot of them, do you?_

He doesn’t do it. But that’s only because he wants to be clear that he’s the sane one here.

His voice is tart when he says:

‘Funnily enough, wiping up your shit after you shagged and murdered your way through Mexico, Europe, and North Africa didn’t leave much time for romance last year.’

‘So it’s mine then.’

And he’s had two months to weigh up the likelihood of it being anyone other than Bond that night, and time after time he’s been forced to admit that assuming so would be ignoring the overwhelming weight of probability.

But nothing compares to hearing him say it.

Despite all the anger and white-hot annoyance at Bond’s objectionable presence, he’d dared to hope that relief would bubble over in his bloodstream when the confirmation came. At least the uncertainty would be over, even if the thing he was certain of was ghastly.

Instead, it feels like a solid punch to the windpipe.

But he swallows the blow down.

‘Well, if I’m to interpret your agitation to mean that you were indeed the person I had a boozy fumble with on Moneypenny’s birthday, then yes. It’s yours.'

For a glorious moment, Bond looks a shell-shocked as Max feels. There’s a second - a split one, but noticeable nonetheless - where he thinks that Bond might actually get up and run.

But the panic twists into rehearsed contempt easily enough, and Bond begins to sneer.

‘You know damn well that I-’

‘No _here’s_ what I know, 007,’ Max cuts in wearily. Because he’s taken a lot of shit from Bond but the line is being drawn now, and drawn deep. ‘I know that several months ago I got so blind-drunk that I woke up with a hangover that could have floored a clydesdale, and a hazy recollection of shagging someone roughly my own height. The rest is news to me.’

‘You can’t be serious.’ Bond’s face is contorting as though he might laugh, but it goes nowhere. ‘Come off it, you weren’t that drunk.’

‘I have a very impressive sober face, but I can assure you that six rounds of shots and four pints of Guinness in the space of five hours is more than enough alcohol to induce partial amnesia.’

He debates for a moment whether that’s enough. But he suspects that honesty will serve him better at this stage.

‘I had assumed it was a stranger, but some inadvertent detective work put you on the cards as the likely candidate, and-’ here, he falters, not for lack of confidence, but for something approaching pity. ‘Well, I realise this is no way to break it to you, but I couldn’t very well come out and ask.’

Bond at least doesn’t argue that point. His face is a frozen screen; anger residing while his brain works out what the fuck to replace it with. He’s probably surprised to hear that Max is a Guinness drinker.

Finally, he manages; ‘You really didn’t remember.’

‘I’m sure you’re good 007, but you’re not better than a blood alcohol level of 0.25%.’

A hard kernel of triumph settles in the roof of his mouth as he says it. He wants to savour it then spit it out. _See_. _See; everything I did in November - it didn’t mean anything that you thought_.

Bond looks nauseous now. Max has been nauseous since Christmas so he’s not inclined to sympathy.

He plops back onto his chair, levels with Bond again.

‘You seemed fine,’ Bond says. His voice is low and urgent, and Max knows that the man would never plead - isn’t capable of it - but he wonders if this is as close as he gets. ‘You said-’

But Bond won’t succeed in trying to rationalise his way out of this - not when Max has already tried and failed.

‘I have no interest in what I said,’ snaps Max. ‘I don’t need you to explain yourself. From what little I recall I had a splendid time. No one’s accusing you of anything.’

He won’t pander to Bond’s new and convenient interpretation of a moral conscience; Max is ready enough to admit that it wasn’t his first time shagging someone while unaware of his own surname. The thought that it might well have been his last is far more upsetting.

They sit there for a moment - Max resigned, Bond clenched - ready to retaliate, or spontaneously combust, by the looks of him. To pre-empt any more stupid comments, Max speaks again.

‘007, I didn’t call you down here to demand anything of you. And nor will I in future. As far as I’m aware Moneypenny is the only other person who knows of your involvement, and I know I can trust her to be discreet - I believe you can too.’

The act of permission is absurd and they both know it; Bond could never be forced into taking any responsibility for anything - least of all this - and if Max wanted Bond’s financial support he could take it without effort or permission. But if Bond is going to storm out at the first opportunity, Max wants to first make it clear that you can’t abandon someone if they’re already self-sufficient.

He has his own money and his own plans; there will be a back garden, Christmases at his parents’ house, and birthdays with an underwhelming children's entertainer.

He does not envisage or expect sporadic, grudging contact from an alcoholic sociopath.

‘Clearly you’ve thought this all through,’ Bond says. He’s angrier than he has any right to  be - far more so than Max had expected. He wonders absently what he had expected, and finds that for all of his sleepless nights spent predicting this moment, he can’t quite recall.

‘Yes - thinking about how your actions affect other people,’ muses Max. ‘You should try it sometime.’

‘Don’t pretend this is for my benefit,’ Bond spits out.

And he’s right - Max can admit that. This might be the pragmatic solution he would always have come to, but happily it doubles as a pleasant comeuppance.

Bond had a hunch and a hair-brained plan four months ago and everyone fell over themselves to help him. Max is facing the certainty of single parenthood along with one of the most stressful jobs in the country and he engineers a meeting to not-so-subtly let Bond know that he’s quite alright on his own.

This is the thoroughbred standing abreast the bucking pony. _This is how it’s done_.

‘Would you rather I put your name on the birth certificate, 007?’ snorts Max. “Father: James Bond. Occupation: trained killer.” Does that appeal? Or better; we could say “ _retired_ trained killer”. You can give up your globe-trotting life of murder and intrigue and stay home in London to help me change nappies every other weekend.’

Bond is silent.

‘No, thought not,’ nods Max.


	4. Chapter 4

The tone of M’s summons brooks no argument or delay, but no clue is offered as to the cause. As a rule, Max dislikes being unprepared for meetings that are more than 40% certain to end in a bollocking, and his mind immediately starts flipping through a rolodex of possible recent errors.

But his work has been to its usual standard of late, none of his direct reports have cocked up in any major fashion, and he’s about as sure as it’s possible to be when one’s boss is Supreme Spy In Chief that M doesn’t know anything he shouldn’t about the paternity issue.

By the time the lift reaches the top floor, Max has quelled his uneasiness: probably just an international security crisis, or a budget cut.

Actually, probably not the latter - Mallory prefers to dole those out by email then put on an out-of-office before the passive-aggressive replies can roll in. A man after Max’s own heart.

Outside the studded red door, Eve’s face is cheerful, and when he raises a questioning eyebrow at her, she simply raises hers back and lets him in.

Max feels almost relaxed as he pads in and takes a seat. He's not sure the same can’t be said for M, but then Mallory has a way of always looking simultaneously on the verge of an aneurysm and blank as a dusty blackboard.

‘We’ve received news of a threat on our higher-level personnel,’ says M.

Max hopes his sigh of relief isn’t audible.

He schools his face into a grave aspect and says ‘I see’ in what he thinks is a considered fashion, to convey that he is pondering this threat.

But really, M’s called him up for this? There’s a fresh kidnap or assassination threat hanging over at least three section heads at any given time. It didn’t worry him the first time and it’s not going to worry him now.

At least the first time it had been novelty enough to seem flattering.

‘We’ve received intel from a contact in Belfast-’ begins M, and Max resists rolling his eyes.

Has anyone in the joint services actually given a shit about the IRA at any point in the last decade? He’s not an idiot, nor is he entirely without empathy; he knows Mallory’s history with the group and that that just because a terrorist group are past their heyday doesn’t mean they’re a line of fluffy ducklings.

But then, he’s also sure that most of their old friends across the water are lacking access to a fast broadband connection, let alone intel good enough for them to uncover the identity of senior MI6 staff.

If some crusty old republican in a balaclava has managed to accurately describe Q as a nerd or D as a woman with an ill-becoming centre-parting, then it will be thanks to lucky guesswork rather than a credible threat.

Max makes interested sounds as he’s briefed on the details and consequent additional security measures, and wonders why on earth he’s been pulled up six floors for this.

He attempts to break in with some quick wins so that he might be judged to have contributed sufficiently, and be allowed to head back to work. He’d be keen to get back anyway, but now that he’s hiding something, Max finds M’s office almost intolerable. Every time he sees Mallory face-to-face is another opportunity for coming clean that he’s willfully ignored.

Max isn’t completely irresponsible; he will tell M that his unborn child was conceived with the help of the agent who's made more enemies across the globe than any other MI6 employee in history. He will. At the right time.

This does not feel like the right time.

‘I’ll have R’s team review the information relay from Stormont,’ he offers. ‘See if we’ve missed any back-alley chat that could be stoking the situation. Of course I’ll have Braithwaite do a quick internal scour just so we’re sure there’s no leakage from our side.’

A pointless exercise; if recent events have taught them anything it’s that anyone in MI6 leaking information to terrorist groups would have set their sights a little higher than the IRA.

After all, they’d have to top the last chap, and there isn’t much to beat getting promoted to head of the Joint Service and single-handedly dismantling vast swathes of established security infrastructure.

(All while acting as the inside man for a monomaniacal millionaire who’s sequestered in the desert with any army of henchmen, plans for world domination, and a nasty childhood grudge.)

‘Oh,’ says M, distractedly. ‘Yes, of course. You don’t need my go-ahead for that.’

Right. Then why is he here?

He mustn’t hide his frustration very well, because M pairs his explanation with a withering look - his own, much classier, way of saying _duh_.

‘We need to discuss the arrangements for Kettlebank - your detail will now need to be increased.’

Kettlebank. Such a sweet name for such a sterile place.

‘It’s a secure facility,’ says Max, bewildered. ‘I’m as safe there as here.’

It’s always seemed overkill to have a field agent with him whenever he goes up to do the rounds in Lancashire. The most exciting thing he’d experienced on the last visit was to help administer an eye bath to the over-enthusiastic researcher that accidentally squirted a trial antidote into her own face.

He can only imagine how dull it is for the agent that has to trudge around the labs with him, watching his back while he peers down microscopes. Though if he must take two of them this time, then they might at least keep one another entertained while Max has grown-up conversations with pioneering biochemists.

‘It’s partly secure,’ corrects M. ‘And given that we’re still decommissioning and replacing every UK safehouse on the books after Nine Eyes, this time you’ll be in unsecured accommodation for the duration of your visit.’

Oh great, so it will be Max, two bored field agents, and a twin room at Premier Inn, if recent budget guidelines are anything to go by.

Bloody marvellous.

‘You’ll be taking a double-oh as security, rather than a senior field lead,’ continues M, and Max bites back a scream.

He flips through the options: half of them scheduled to be out of the country, two on medical leave, and 005, 006, and 0010 all out of the running thanks to MI6’s archaic weirdness about assigning agents to accompany staff members of the opposite sex, no matter how queer either party.

The odds aren’t good.

He never anticipated that he’d regret dobbing in 003 for treason.

‘Are you sure-’ Max scrabbles for a foothold. ‘It’s just. We’ve not got a full roster as it is. The double-ohs have better things-’

But M has made up his mind.

‘A year ago I might have agreed. But until we are confident that we’ve severed every information stream that Denbigh opened up, we will take any and all reports of leaked intel seriously.’ Here Mallory fixes him with a significant look. ‘And I don’t say this unkindly, but following Bond to Austria right when every one of Blofeld’s eyes was on you didn’t do much to keep your profile down.’

Max fights down the blood that rushes to his face.

Lest he be taken for protesting too much, Max refrains from pointing out that he was trying to reign the bastard in, not rushing to his assistance. It's bad enough than Bond’s been strolling about the place under the impression that Max’s actions last year were fuelled by some insane crush. He doesn't need M thinking it too.

He attempts to look M in the eye and nods, curtly.

‘If you don’t take a double-oh then I can’t guarantee your safety - if that means you have to put up with an understimulated senior agent for a few days then so be it.’

‘Yes, of course,’ says Max, knowing a lost cause when he sees one. ‘It’ll be 009, I assume?’

Come on.

50/50 chance. 

Surely he’s used up a year’s supply of bad luck.

‘Probably 007.’ M is already turning away, switching off. ‘Might be your chance to wrangle a thank you out of him for all your work in November.’

M offers what he probably thinks is a conspiratorial smile, and presses the intercom button to call in his next appointment.

 

***

 

As soon as he’s in his flat, Max flings himself down on the couch, sweaty and disconsolate. He’s spent an overly long day at the office getting nowhere with either the digital grenade prototype or a robust excuse for not taking Bond to Kettlebank.

Eve, clearly having been informed of M’s decision after the meeting, had sent him a text to check in, but he hasn’t summoned the energy to respond.

He’s got three weeks to wrangle is way out of this one - he can’t sack off the trip, so he’s praying to god that the security threat evaporates, or an urgent mission crops up in New Zealand that only Bond’s skills are suited to.

Unfortunately, he can engineer neither situation without breaking several laws, and simply asking M to assign him a different agent would raise too many uncomfortable questions.

Jigsaw yowls mournfully from near his feet.

‘Oh, hang on a minute,’ groans Max. ‘You won't starve.’

He pushes up his shirt and peers at his belly, placing both palms gently on it.

It might be the way he's slouching, but it does seem especially large today. He certainly feels especially pregnant. He's ravenous, grouchy, and the tube had been clammier than usual.

And yet.

He looks over to the carpet by the coffee table, and pictures a playmat there, a little bouncy seat. He looks back down to his stomach. A faint brown line is emerging, dividing the bump straight down the centre, almost too precise to be natural.

At the last scan there was nothing but a little grainy bean, swirling in monochrome on the monitor. His dad had burst into tears, pathetic old sod. Max had felt like he’d never stop grinning.

There are little eyes in there now, he knows; eyebrows, eyelashes, there but not opening yet. He wonders which way the baby’s head is facing.

In three weeks they’ll both be getting really big. He can’t even imagine what Bond’s response will be. Since their confrontation a week ago, Max has seen him only once, when he swung in late to a tedious post-Nine Eyes rehashing session.

(These have been a regular feature since the new year:

  * Learnings from the Nine Eyes programme: Nine Eyes was really bad.
  * Actions to be taken forwards: go back to how we were doing things before Nine Eyes.
  * Next meeting to discuss learnings from Nine Eyes: one month from today.
  * Agenda for next meeting: see above.)



Surprised that Bond had even deigned to attend such needless bureaucracy, Max had spent the meeting concentrating very hard on acting normally, while Bond had sat himself at the other end of the conference table and looked contemptuous.

Perhaps Bond will do the same at Kettlebank; show up, do the job, act as if it’s all beneath him.

Or perhaps he'll stage another retirement attempt before the trip even rolls around - it's not impossible; the man’s had more last days in the office than Cher’s had farewell tours.

Max wills the baby to move, shift around a bit; so far he hasn’t felt anything, but he knows to expect it soon. He strokes his palms up and down, tries to soothe the worry away, as though it might permeate through to the malleable little skull underneath.

He’s sure parenthood will be a maze of unforeseen challenges, but he’s beginning to wonder if it still won’t be half as stressful as the past few weeks. He thinks he’d like a day or two of just enjoying being pregnant - wandering round Mothercare with his mum, or making a list of potential names - instead of perpetually being on high alert in an organisation of spies, and feeling self-pitying about his poor choice of sexual partner and what exactly that means for their future.

Despite all the catastrophes, the mistakes and recriminations, despite what happened to M - it's the first time he's ever found himself actively not wanting to go into the office the next day. He considers if this is some seismic shift; his world reordering itself - his life changing.

But slumped on the sofa with his shirt around his armpits and knowing there's nothing in the fridge apart from a packet of ham and a jar of mayonnaise, he thinks maybe he's just having a bad day.

Jig yowls again and starts rubbing against his shin.

‘Yeah, ok,’ he sighs, and tugging his shirt back down and dragging himself up.

 

***

 

He’s sitting in the cafeteria swiping through Tinder as he waits for Eve to join him. He’s hovering on _Andy - 25_ when he hears her clack up to him.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting - temporary crisis in Riyadh.’

‘Don’t worry; I’ve been talking to hot singles in my area,’ he says, not bothering to look up. He wavers on whether Andy’s second photo is bad enough to write him off as a bad bet. He swipes left.

Eve lets out an awkward laugh and Max’s heart sinks. H snaps his head up, jerking his finger to the lock button.

Of all the people, why the fuck did she bring him.

‘007.’ He slides his phone hastily into a pocket. ‘Will you be joining us?’ He tries to look as though the thought doesn’t appall him.

Bond’s answering smile could put bears into hibernation.

‘No no. I’m sure you have enough people to talk to as it is.’ He says _talk_ the way other people say  _paedophile_. ‘Enjoy lunch, Moneypenny - the chicken noodle soup smells delightful.’ He hands Eve the tray he’s been holding and turns on his heel.

They stare after him for a moment.

‘I really hope you have a good explanation for that,’ Max sighs, as Eve sits down.

‘Sorry,’ she mutters. ‘He owed me lunch so I asked him to come down and buy it.’

‘And I suppose having him carry it over to the table had nothing to do with you hoping to set up an awkward encounter for entertainment value?’

‘You can’t prove anything. And why on earth are you on Grindr?’

Eve looks equal parts delighted and horrified.

‘Tinder,’ he corrects. ‘And can’t a pregnant man have his needs met?’

Even though it’s still only lukewarm outside, Max has been hot for days now. His trousers feel perpetually tight despite having switched to pregnancy clothing, and he’s been waking up every morning with a raging hard-on that wanking only slightly appeases.

On two occasions, he’s woken up sticky, as though he were fifteen again.

He confesses this all to Eve in hushed tones and threatens to throw his food at her when she can’t control her laughter.

‘This is not funny!’ Max hisses. 'I’m so frustrated I think I might expire.’

It’s become so unbearable that he’s resorted to Grindr for relief three times already. He’s only making the switch to Tinder now because he feels he ought to broaden the pool of potential partners.

At his insistence they’ve been meeting at hotels, and the sex is variable to say the least; a couple of them were too reverent about his belly and asked weird questions like whether he’s felt the baby kick yet. The third wasn't a fetishist but just a guy out to tick this off his bucket list of sexual adventure - he was better, and didn't act as though he was fucking an art installation.

‘Oh don’t pretend you don’t think it’s funny too,’ grins Eve, when she’s got herself under control. ‘If you weren’t so enslaved by your libido you’d be in hysterics.’

‘I very nearly am hysterical,’ groans Max. ‘At first I thought it was just because I wasn’t used to going without sex for so long-’

‘Wait,’ Eve interrupts. ‘You shagged Bond in October - three months isn’t _that_ long, even for you.’

‘For months before _that_ we’d all been too run off our feet to even think about shagging,’ he protests. ‘I was sleeping in the office for about six weeks straight at one point - hadn’t had a dry spell like that for years!’

‘True,’ says Eve, nodding her head as she mulls it over. ‘Does explain why getting very drunk with a large group of equally sexually frustrated colleagues could end so badly.’ She aims a pointed look at his stomach.

Max flings a chip at her.

‘ _As I was saying_ ,’ he continues, fighting back a treacherous smile, and patting his belly automatically. ‘I thought it was just a dry spell, but it must be a hormonal thing because a healthy dose of sex just isn’t cutting it.’

The truth is it’s becoming impractical - his body is screaming out for a much higher rate of stimulation than normal, but between work, his increased need for sleep, and making quality time for the cats, he’s barely able to locate sexual partners who are into pregnant dudes, let alone spend half an hour on each potential candidate doing a topline background check.

He never used to bother; he would follow his nose and it never led him far astray. Now, he assumes that anyone interested in shagging him is a sex offender or a foreign agent trying to get ahead of the game by terminating the future cyber security threat currently gestating under Max’s shirt.

There’s a chance that this newfound caution also stems from the hormones currently ravaging the left side of his brain. He supposes it’s no bad thing; so far he’s been unable to execute the switch to decaf tea, regularly inhales questionable chemicals at work, and is still going running in the morning.

Protecting his unborn child from the danger posed by international intelligence agencies seems like the least he can do.

‘My friend Angela was the same when she had her second one,’ muses Eve, cutting through his thoughts. ‘Didn’t hit her until the final few months though, and by then her boyfriend was too terrified to touch her. Thought that the baby would reach out and touch his dick or something.’

Max blinks.

‘Right. Well, I think my extensive grasp of human biology is enough to discard that notion,’ he says, though he fears that visual will now be seared into his retina for quite some time.

‘Mm, I think it was the thought of an extensive grasp of his biology that was worrying him,’ agrees Eve. ‘But anyway. It sounds like you're on the right track; best to keep on with the anonymous sex and regular dildo sessions until it passes.’

Her smile turns mischievous.

‘What?’ asks Max, not sure he wants to hear it.

‘Suppose you'd better hope it passes before your trip on Thursday,’ Eve says.

He selects an extra soggy chip this time. It clips her on the left ear but does nothing to affect her smug look.

‘Yes well, thankfully _someone_ has already introduced the idea of my increased libido to Bond,’ huffs Max. 'So he won't be taken by surprise when he catches me checking out the Lancashire gay scene.'

‘Maybe he’ll offer to step up to the plate,’ grins Eve.

Max sinks his head into his hands and groans.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love and wonderful feedback so far; it's such a thrill to know that people are invested in the story, especially as this is my maiden voyage into the world of 00Q. 
> 
> Please keep sending me your thoughts.
> 
> Next update should be with you in two weeks' time. x


	5. Chapter 5

Max expects Bond to do the decent thing and ignore the cafeteria incident.

Of course, a man with family values straight out of Mad Men would feel uncomfortable at the thought of the bearer of his genetic offspring having a sex life, but Bond’s distaste is certain to be overruled by his pathological need to suppress all evidence of emotional response, and his compulsion to demonstrate - through indifference - his lack of interest in all elements of Max’s pregnancy.

Of this Max is sure.

He is sure of it as soon as Bond stalks out the cafeteria doors, he is sure of it all afternoon, and he is sure of it at 8pm, poring over a tender submission in his office.

When a screen refreshes, informing him that a member of authorised non-departmental personnel is entering Q Branch outside normal working hours, he is suddenly less sure.

He walks out to the main branch floor as Bond strides in. A few lingering workers look up, nervous that a late visitor means a last-minute weapons briefing and an even later night at the office.

Max plasters a smile on his face.

‘007. What can I do for you?’

‘I wondered if I might have a word. In private.’

There’s a forced playfulness about Bond’s tone; clearly he’d like people to think that he’s come down to sweet talk his quartermaster into ‘lending’ him some exploding cufflinks, or perhaps to request another temporary disappearing act.

Max doesn’t buy it for a minute, but his employees must because they visibly relax, satisfied that this is not how news of a fresh security crisis would be delivered and that they'll be home in time for Broadchurch.

‘Is it urgent? I was about to leave for the night.’

He’s found an excellent candidate on Tinder: Sean, 32, _down for a good time - i might even make you breakfast ;)_

Right now, Max would pay through the nose for both a good time and good pancakes. Hell, amateur porn and instant pancake mix sounds appealing enough at this stage. Such is the burden of second trimester pregnancy.

‘I’d rather not wait,’ says Bond, smirk grimly set in place.

‘Very well.'

He ignores the sour looks radiating from his staff - clearly disappointed that some quality “cheeky double-oh versus long-suffering Quartermaster” repartee is not to be forthcoming - and leads Bond back to his office.

The door has barely shut before the casual charm evaporates.

‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ Bond snaps. His hands are shoved into his trouser pockets, shoulders raised.

‘Sorry, did you want to expand on that?’ asks Max, brightly. ‘Or is this some new game where I get to guess “What’s making 007 a self-righteous arse on this occasion”?’

(A losing game: there so rarely is a reason.)

‘Don’t act coy,’ says Bond. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

‘James Bond, not in the mood? Well that is a wonder,' says Max, laying it on thick. 'Medical is only a floor away, you know. I’m sure they have a plentiful stock of little blue pills.’

Bond takes a step towards him, Max takes a step back. As intended, his nonchalance has irritated Bond further.

Bond’s face is alert, calculating. Assessing how best to make his complaint.

‘Well spit it out, Bond,’ sighs Max. ‘I’m sure we both know why you’re here.’

‘There’s a heightened threat level for every section head in the service and you want to stand around making jokes,’ says Bond, flatly. ‘I know you’re young, Q. But I hadn’t realised you were this unprofessional.’

Max flinches.

‘Unprofessional?’ he stutters. ‘ _Unprofessional_?’ His coolness rapidly abandons him. ‘How dare you come in here and question my ability to do my job - my proficiency?' He hates the fact that Bond is able to get a reaction out of him so quickly, aiming his attack squarely at Max’s pride. 'Just because you overheard a conversation and didn’t like the content of it, you think you can swagger in here, reprimanding a senior officer for behaviour that you wouldn't think twice about if it was your own. And I shouldn't have to remind you that none of this is any of your concern.’

‘You made it my concern the moment you began putting your own safety on the line.’ Bond’s voice is still low, still growling, still standing proudly on its false moral high ground. ‘When you get kidnapped by a third-rate extremist thanks to your own stupidity, it will be one of us that gets sent to clean up the mess.’

‘Thanks so much for the advice, 007,’ snaps Max. ‘Now that you mention it, I’ll make sure I swipe left on that bloke sitting in front of an Irish flag with an assault rifle in his hands. Still not sure what I’ll do about Ibrahim, though - he wants me to fly out to Syria and meet his three other wives, but he looks so fetching in that balaclava that I just might say yes.’

‘Are you finished yet?’

‘No, as a matter of fact I’m not. I don’t see-’

‘Is this a joke to you?' Bond cuts in. His frustration is beginning to show properly, matching Max's own. 'These people could kill you-’

‘And I them,’ Max shouts, before gathering breath and willing away the urge to continue yelling like the indignant toddler that he’s being taken for.

When he speaks again, his words are crisp.

‘In fact I _have_ killed men like them - and I’ll do so again. I’m not some schoolboy wandering into the woods after a man who says he needs help finding his dog. I’ve done background checks on every man I’ve met, and even if I hadn’t I’d still be living well within the boundaries of acceptable risk.’

He hates to hear himself excusing his actions; he wishes he were able to shrug Bond’s anger off and wander back to exactly what he was doing before this little domestic broke out of nowhere.

‘It’s not the same,’ Bond says. ‘Not now that you’re-’

‘Oh god help me,’ sighs Max. ‘What have I done to deserve this concerned party act? Just because I’m pregnant?’

‘ _Act_?’ Bond is incredulous. ‘Is that what you take me for? You think this a show I’m putting on?’

‘Well it’s certainly dramatic enough,’ Max hits back, sourly. ‘Funny how your worry for my well being only seems to show up - after weeks of blatantly not giving a shit, might I add - when the possibility of me having a good time gets floated.’

Because it’s not a surprise, is it. Bond’s always been a caveman in a suit, and Max can’t imagine that the man’s ever relished watching his past conquests seek pleasure elsewhere. Perhaps that’s why he’s always leaned towards women with a low life expectancy: less chance of their having many subsequent partners.

‘I am trying to protect you,’ spits Bond. ‘If you want to call me jealous then have it your way. But this stops here.’

‘Sod your protection. It wasn’t there while you were off faking your death in Turkey and I was dragging this place out of the stone ages, it wasn’t there in Austria - why the hell would I need it now?’

‘Austria?’ says Bond, thrown. ‘When did you need it in Austria?’

Oh christ, that came out wrong. The last thing he needs now is for Bond to think he’s some sort of plod-footed idiot who can only evade hired thugs when presented with serendipitous fire escape doors.

Max goes to correct himself, but the words die in his throat.

He drops his hands to his stomach; looks down, searching for confirmation.

‘Oh.’

Bond’s anger has dissipated as quickly as it came, replaced with tense alertness, a gun dog that’s just scented blood. He takes a stride towards Max then stops short.

‘What is it?’

‘The-’ Max starts. ‘I mean.’

‘What’s wrong?’

Max looks up at him. Bond is standing on the balls of his feet, primed for all possible worst-case scenarios. His eyes are darting over Max, searching out a clue to the problem.

‘I think the baby just moved.’

It’s not what he expected - not a shifting or a kicking, or a lurching down in the depths. It feels like something miniscule has been displaced then reverted; the surface of the pond a-ripple at the appearance of a frog, then still once more.

Some of the tension leaves Bond’s face. He hovers uneasily.

‘Sorry, it’s just - it’s the first time it’s happened,’ Max explains, hands still fixed on his bump.

Nonsensically, he doesn’t want to move: what if it happens again and he somehow misses it, caught up in the hustle and bustle of walking around? He stands very still, straining every one of his senses, as if somehow he might be able to feel it again, if he pays enough attention.

It moved. It’s really in there.

A moment passes there is still nothing more. In his peripheral vision, Bond is still standing, primed for action.

Max tries to shake if off - it will happen again, he tells himself. Only the first of many.

He sighs, looks up at Bond. The man’s never easy to read, but he looks about as thrown as Max has ever seen him.

‘It’s alright - we can go back to shouting at one another now.’

He’s aiming for jocular, but Bond swallows visibly, nods as if to snap himself out of whatever moment of internal crisis he’s having. He strides around Max’s desk and pulls the chair out.

‘You should sit.’ His voice is gruff.

‘What?’ says Max, confused. ‘No, Bond, it’s fine-’

‘Sit down,’ Bond repeats, gesturing at the chair. ‘I’ll get you some tea,’ he says, and walks out the room.

More out of surprise than compliance, Max plops down into his seat, hands still running over his stomach.

A few minutes later, Jen walks into his office with a steaming mug of tea in hand and a confused look on her face.

Bond does not return.

 

***

 

Max means to take his mum to the mid-pregnancy scan - she’d never be so blunt as to say that she was sorry to miss the first, but she’s propped the grainy picture on the living room mantelpiece, next to Adrian and Molly on the church steps and Grandad ‘celebrating’ his 90th.

But his parents are in Sicily for two weeks, so Lydia insists her way into his flat for a couple of nights to ‘see the squirmy little bean with my own eyes’ and help think up baby names.

(‘Sirocco would be cool. So out there.’

‘I don’t want my child to be _out there_ , Lydia. I want them to be un-bullied.’)

He knows that she’s really just glad of an excuse to get away from Cambridgeshire, going stir crazy in the house when she should be applying for grad schemes. But he’s glad to have her there, mouth agape as cold gel is smeared on his stomach and they turn to watch the suddenly-very-big squirmy bean shifting around on screen.

‘A boy?’ says Max, completely thrown.

Lydia looks as amazed as he feels.

‘Were you betting on a girl?’ the sonographer asks, smiling but half-distracted as she peers at the monitor.

‘Well, honestly; no. I just-’ Max stammers.

A girl sounds like an even madder idea now.

He’s thought about the future; about sleepless nights and labour pains, about first steps and cradle cap. He’s looked at those tiny jars of orange gunk on supermarket shelves, unconvincingly proclaiming themselves to be pea and ham.

And he’s wondered about a boy or a girl - has tried to picture a face or a voice or a pair of grabby hands. But it’s been indistinct as a dream; something he wants desperately to linger over but it rapidly slips away and out of his vision.

Now, decades rush towards him and attack his mind’s eye, sharp as 4k but too fast to catch and process: bathtime, superhero lunchboxes, sports teams, driving him to parties. Awkward chats about reproduction at the kitchen table.

On screen there is a face - an honest-to-god face - with a big alien forehead, four limbs, and a steady, rapid heartbeat.

‘Fucking hell,’ says Lydia, erupting through the onslaught. ‘It’s actually going to be a _baby_.’

Well.

He couldn’t have said it better himself.

 


	6. Chapter 6

In between overseeing a nightmarish extraction for 0011, discovering that the new Walther prototype is suffering from a crippling design flaw, and avoiding Bill so that he doesn’t have to lie to his face, Max tries to find time to get decorators in to quote for turning the study into a nursery, and spends far too much time procrastinating on the baby furniture section of the John Lewis website.

In the end, the whole thing looks set to be so outrageously expensive that he makes the error of complaining to his dad about it when they next speak.

‘You should have said,’ Dad says, incredulous. ‘Your mum and I will come down one weekend and do it - and we’ll do a trip to Ikea and get what you need. We can all go out for dinner afterwards. That new Italian place near you got a good review in Times recently-’

‘No. Dad, you don’t have to,’ says Max, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I’m not at uni anymore, you don’t have to do it all for me.’

‘We like to do these things for you.’

He says it so simply that Max might weep.

‘No, that’s.’ Max lifts the phone away from his mouth so he can let out a heavy exhale. ‘I mean, thank you. I’m just not sure that I have the time.’

There’s a pause before Dad speaks again.

‘Right, well. Here, let me put your mother on; she’ll want to catch up with you.’

Max curses himself, but then Mum’s in his ear, asking him about work and names and the weather, and the time to apologise eludes him.

 

***

 

Kettlebank encroaches, and the fog of anxious, muggy frustration settles more heavily around him.

On the dreaded Thursday morning, Max is jolted from a graphic dream about his sixth form English teacher by a blaring early alarm. He lies for a few minutes and debates whether to do anything about the small tent in the duvet, but ends up lapsing back into fitful sleep for long enough that the question is moot. He drags himself to the shower and sets it to cool.

7am comes and goes and Max’s phone remains silent - he allows a spark of hope to flare that Bond has found a way to wriggle out of this; that there’s been some kind of flare-up in Hong Kong that only Bond’s Cantonese skills are suited for; that there’s flooding on the roads up north-

The buzzer goes at twenty past, when Max has just poured himself a third cup of tea.

He empties the pot out into the sink with a vengeance, grabs his bag, waddles down the stairs and almost walks straight into Bond as he tries to leave his building.

‘Shit. Why aren’t you in the car?’

‘I was coming up to help you with _that_.’ Bond grabs Max’s bag and hoists it over his own shoulder.

‘The car can’t be more than ten feet away,’ grumbles Max, reaching to take the bag back. ‘I’m not a bloody invalid.’

But Bond is already turning away, walking towards a black Range Rover Sport.

‘And why didn’t you bring one of the Jaguars instead of that brute?’ asks Max, indignant as he traipses after Bond, bad mood increasing by the minute.

‘Someone in your branch had the terrible idea of assigning their boss a car with more legroom for a long drive.’ Bond flings the bag into the boot and slams the door. ‘God forbid you be comfortable.’

This last is muttered sotto voce, and Max is momentarily cowed.

‘Oh. Rather thoughtful of them, I suppose.’

The drive passes largely in silence. It proves uncomfortable for the first hour or so and sets Max pondering on whether he ought to make some form of neutral conversation. Given his black mood, however, ‘neutral’ isn’t something he’s capable of - and he can’t face another unwinnable shouting match.

The abrupt ending of their last encounter has hovered over Max like a persistent housefly, pestering his calmer thoughts. Could he have handled it better - disguised what had happened altogether? Or should he have sought him out afterwards? Christ, should he have offered to let him have a feel?

But no, he reasons; that would have been madness; Bond wants to be as far away from this foetus as possible, moving or no. His disappearing act certainly proved that. And besides, any attempt to broach the subject now would be odd - so obviously unwelcome.

So Max remains shtum and the awkwardness settles to a low hum after the first toilet stop. To his credit, Bond remains silent, eyes hardly wavering from the road as they wind upwards through the country, through endless roundabouts and a few unremarkable red-brick towns, the Midlands falling flat and green around them.

 

In a twist of irony that even Max can appreciate, he and Bond have been allocated a ‘family suite’ at the hotel. In real terms, this comprises adjoining, cramped rooms with a shared bathroom, all in a cacophony of cream, off-white, and pale taupe. Though not thrilled at the prospect of being in such close proximity for three nights, Max can appreciate that this is a far better outcome than sharing a twin.

Bond, however, is wholly disgruntled. He drops the bags on the bed in the first room and gives a hostile assessment of the adjoining door, testing its thickness and rattling it in its hinges, before probing the latch accusatorially.

‘There’s a very bored looking receptionist downstairs,’ says Max, seating himself in a not-quite-grubby armchair. ‘You could easily interrogate her, rather than waste your animosity on the door. I fear it has nothing much to share.’

‘We shouldn’t be in separate rooms,’ says Bond, by way of reply.

He pins the door open with the other armchair.

‘If they hadn’t given us separate rooms, you would have found yourself sleeping in the hallway,’ says Max, primly. ‘Or the car. So I would count this a win, if I were you.’

Bond turns back to look at him, jaw set.

‘I’m here for your security - which I can’t bloody well guarantee when there’s a wall in between us.’

‘We’re in a Premier Inn, not the Lanesborough - that wall is made out of sawdust and PVC glue.’

Bond could probably knock it down with a stern look, if the need arose. But Max isn’t about to give him ideas.

‘And besides, the only person who's going to come for me in the dead of night is a Deliveroo driver when I get that weird pineapple pizza craving again.’

Bond looks set to argue, but Max fixes him with his best _just don’t_ look, collects his bag from the bed and heads to the bathroom for a shower.

‘Leave that unlocked,’ shouts Bond, voice clear as day through the plywood.

 

The trip goes well enough; the major project teams are making good progress, the last stage of the anticonvulsant work looks set to tie up before he goes on leave, and Bond has - as far as Max is aware - refrained from fiddling with anything he ought not.

Occasions for awkwardness are kept to a minimum; when not out on inspection or in meetings, he works in his room and leaves Bond to his own devices on the other side of the door, checking in with him only at mealtimes so that they can negotiate on whether to order in or head to the lacklustre nearby pub.

But though signs point to plain sailing, Max finds the trip interminable.

He’s sleeping terribly; his lower back has developed a persistent pain, that throbs acutely through the day and and aches dully at night.

Texts from his parents mount up on his phone, suggesting days to visit and ways they can help. Tanner sends him no fewer than three emails that in some way reference pregnancy and therefore remind Max that he’s guilty of both wilfully concealing security information from his superiors and being a shit friend.

To cap it all off, he hasn’t had a wank in four days.

He’s losing his mind.

Bond insists on leaving the adjoining door open through the night (Max had threatened to have him fired if he didn’t back down but, horrifyingly, had been outplayed by the presentation of an email from M stating that Bond was to have a direct eyeline to the Quartermaster at all times during the trip) and Max knows that the double-ohs all sleep lighter than big cats.

It shouldn’t bother him so much - lord knows he’d had more than his fair share of furtive under-sheet action at boarding school - and if it were anyone other than Bond sleeping ten feet away from him then he’d swallow his pride and get do what needed to be done.

But he can’t face the thought of Bond’s smugness the next morning, or his sarky comments. Worse; he dreads the thought that he’ll get halfway through, stridently tugging away, and Bond will shout something crass through the open door.

So he’s been taking cold showers in the morning, nervous even of rubbing one out in there in case he takes too long and Bond sniffs him out.

On the final night, it all becomes too much, and after excusing himself early from dinner he’s been lying in bed for some hours, sweaty and increasingly worked up. The room is bone-dry from the unceasing air conditioning, but he feels overwarm and uncomfortable against the sheets, tossing and turning and searching for the cool side of the pillow.

Maybe the baby will kick soon. He’s been doing it a lot through the day, and Max silently prays for a repeat, forcing himself to lie still as though that might encourage it.

A stream of emails from headquarters flash up on his phone, detailing some crisis or other in the Middle East, and pre-warning a hellish first day back in the office.

(His father’s hurt voice at the other end of the phone pushes its way to the front of his mind.)

He rubs a hand over his belly. Still nothing. Uneasiness settles in his oesophagus. He knows nothing’s wrong; he’s not a worrier, never has been.

And yet.

(He might raise a child that’s as foul to him as he is to his own parents. Wouldn’t that serve him right.)

Still nothing.

( _We like to do these things for you._ )

He surges out of bed and into the bathroom, yanks the light on. In the mirror he is yellowish, asymmetrical. Entirely unpleasant. He ducks out of sight and plops onto the toilet seat, breaths shallower and shallower by the second.

He sits in the windowless off-white capsule, feeling it all mount up in his chest, pressing outwards and upwards to his throat. He tries gulping down the lump, blinking furiously, until he realises: he’s a soon-to-be single parent alone in a Premier Inn toilet. Now is the time for crying.

Dad’s voice is back in his ear, mirage-like. But this time he remembers _we’re all very happy for you_ and the squeeze of his hand. He stoppers up the urge to get his phone and dial his parents’ landline.

He tries to cry quietly, get it all out and be done with it quickly. But his cheeks are slippery, nose running, and the desolation doesn’t diminish. He can’t even bring himself to bring his hands up from his stomach to wipe the tears and snot away, just stays there, statuesque and breath hitching. Eyes open but blurred to blindness.

After a time, the other door to bathroom rattles.

With energy neither to run for cover nor prepare a response, Max stays stock still and staring blankly ahead. Bond steps into the bathroom, dressed in boxers and a greying t-shirt, blinking as he adjusts to the light.

‘Q? Is everything alright?’

If Bond is horrified at the sight of his Quartermaster having an unnecessary emotional crisis, he hides it well.

 _What the bloody hell do you think_ or, _Oh do piss off, 007_. This is what he should say.

He shakes his head miserably, and tries to stop visibly sobbing.

Bond crouches down before him. Max won’t meet his eyes.

‘Tell me everything’s alright with the baby.’

His voice is calm. He must have worked out that this isn’t a medical emergency.

Max nods.

‘Yes.’ He sniffs. ‘Yeah, I think so. I just.’ He rubs a hand over his stomach again.

‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

In all the time he’s known him, Max is sure he’s never seen Bond like this; patient, speaking softly. This close, Max can see that his t-shirt has been through the wash too many times. It looks soft, with a tiny hole in the shoulder seam.

‘He hasn’t kicked for a while.’

Bond hums, tears off some toilet paper from the roll and holds it out for Max to blow his nose, then offers more for his cheeks. When he’s wiped his face dry, Bond throws the damp lump into the bin.

‘You’re only twenty-three weeks; he doesn’t need to be kicking all the time.’ Bond rubs his knee. ‘You know that. There’s something else.’

He’s strange, Bond. He doesn’t ask many questions; just states his opinions, so certain in his own mind that his thoughts might as well be facts. In the past Max has found it irritating or amusing, but - until now - never comforting.

Max looks at him properly - face still tan under the bleaching strip light, an even stubble sharpening his jaw - and tries to form a proper response. But the openness of Bond’s face makes him see the ridiculousness of his own predicament, and he snorts at himself before speaking.

‘I’m a hormonal, permanently aroused, woefully ill-equipped father-to-be currently occupying one of the most stressful positions in the British intelligence service, I haven't slept properly in days, and I'm certain that I'm fucking everything up. And my back really hurts.’

He doesn’t say: _also, the man who knocked me up in toilet stall is now watching me cry in a budget hotel bathroom_.

‘I’m beyond help,’ he finishes, letting out a damp laugh.

Bonds mouth twitches into a smile and he lets out a matching snort. He rubs Q’s knee again before shaking it a little.

Max fight the urge to laugh or cry further, and props his elbows on his thighs, forehead pressed in his hands.

‘Well if that's all,' says Bond, voice wry. ‘Get back in bed. I’ll find you some paracetamol.’

Bond nudges his leg gently.

Max nods glumly and goes to stand, then halts when he realises, clears his throat.

‘You might be best-. Um.’ he fights the insubordinate blush that surges up. ‘I might need a few minutes, you know-’ he gestures awkwardly at his crotch.

Because Max’s life has descended into a poorly-written bro comedy, his current state of misery has done little to abate his inconsiderate erection. His blood ought to be sampled and replicated for use as a viagra alternative - someone at the lab must be capable of it.

He looks up to give Bond an awkward ‘what can you do’ look, but falters when he sees the look on Bond’s face.

Bond’s eyes flick to the side, quick as a cat’s, before landing back on Max. He's as calm as before, but a decision has been made.

Max has seen this movement before; usually through a hacked CCTV feed, just before Bond decides to throw his earpiece in a dustbin and go elbow-deep into a dirty bomb at the end of its timer, or start a fist fight with a troupe of armed guards.

Bond's hand is still resting on his leg.

‘I could help you with that.’

Max is silent for a moment, mind blank.

‘With the paracetamol,’ he tries to clarify.

‘No.’

‘With-?’ Max swallows.

He’s going to laugh. Really he is; he’s going to break down into hysterical giggle-tears, and Bond will be curt and pissed off, and then they’ll never speak of this again.

He is.

Except-

‘Yeah,’ he breathes. ‘Ok.’

 


	7. Chapter 7

There is a moment where Max could retreat.

Where the bathroom is silent, not even a dripping tap or the sound of breathing, and Bond is stock still on his haunches, gaze unflinching.

It's enough to let a glimmer of _bad idea_ flash through the cracks and beg to be examined - enough to let Max look down at Bond’s washed out t-shirt again, at his thick arms protruding from the sleeves, and imagine heat, weight, and something to grip onto.

The ache in the small of his back is still there; monotonous and persistent. Bond’s hand is halfway up his thigh.

The moment hangs there, intrusive; an uninvited guest that hovers, pretending at shyness.

Max contemplates it, and lets it pass.

And it ought to be odd, watching another man tugging your pyjamas down when there’s a bump in between you - when there’s a physical intervention reminding you why these things never end well.

It ought to be odd that not five minutes ago Bond was an unwelcome audience to Max’s unwieldy hormones, but now he’s running his knuckles over Max’s thighs, pressing a dry kiss to his inner side of one, bringing him out in gooseflesh.

In fact it _is_ odd, all of it is - but oddness is of so little concern when there's a head between your legs and a hand on your prick, and you’re tired from crying and you’ve been turned on for weeks.

Because Eve might had joked, but Max would never have seriously believed-

‘Oh, god,’ he sighs. ‘That feels good.’

Bond runs a firm hand over him, gives a few smooth tugs, and Max rests his head back against the tile. His eyes snap shut.

Every nerve ending, every receptive molecule has drifted below his waist, pooled in his cock and just behind his balls, begging to be touched. Bond keeps a hand firmly at the base of his prick, and Max can feel his breath ghosting over the head. He simmers, rib to femur. His knees might shake.

Might.

Well, he doesn’t know, he's not looking.

He spreads his legs as best he can, encouraging Bond to settle down further, pushing gently until finally - thank god, finally - Bond’s mouth is there, lips whispering over him, and then hot, wet tightness taking him in.

Fuck - it’s been a year or it’s been a lifetime, surely, since someone last touched him. And Max is as surprised as anyone to find that this is what he wants; that Bond - _this_ fucking arsehole - is someone who can help break the fever.

Max whines and squirms when the tip of his cock kisses the back of Bond’s throat -  his hands slide from where they’ve been scrabbling against Bond’s shoulders and up into his sandpaper hair.

Because he's a bastard, Bond hums a laugh around a his cock, and holds him there like a jammed buzzwire, lazily pumping his shaft and making Max grit his teeth and squeeze Bond’s shoulders between his knees. He wants desperately to thrust, but Bond’s other hand - gentle and commanding on his hipbone - bids him stay locked in the _too much too much_.

‘Fuck’, hisses Max, high pitched. ‘Oh fuck, fuck.’

His toes scrunch and unscrunch on the cold floor - fingers scratch at Bond's skull, thumbs clutching at his ears.

Bond keeps fisting him steadily, bobs up to suck firmly at the head of his cock.

It's never felt this good. Has it ever felt this good? Max doesn’t know or care, removed from all sense of presence, past, and anything beyond what’s hurtling right towards him. He realises he’s not going to last.

All he can focus on his Bond’s tongue, pressing monstrously against his tip. On trying to press closer and further away from the hand that’s slotting between his legs, cupping his balls, slipping back to press firmly against his perineum.

A jolt of spasming, concentrated pleasure crests behind his bollocks, overflows through his cock - still being mercilessly lapped at.

He lets out a strangled cry and starts coming down Bond’s throat.

‘Shit,’ whines Max - back arching, hands gripped at the base of Bond’s skull, frozen in the wave.

Around him, Bond grunts, swallowing.

He keeps stroking Max’s cock - more lightly now, riding him right through it until Max twitches, arches away, gasping. He thunks his head back against the wall, catches his breath as Bond pulls off him with a quiet slurp.

Max tries to look down at him, but his stomach blocks the view. He hears Bond breathing through his nose, only a little more heavily than usual.

Max looks up at the white ceiling, runs his knuckles over the back of Bond’s head - like velvet rubbed the wrong way.

‘Must we always end up in bathrooms?’

He’s smiling drowsily, basking in the glow of an itch well scratched. Below him, Bond’s hands still where they are, midway to tucking Max back into his pyjamas while he lolls unhelpfully.

When Max’s spent cock is tucked safely away for the evening, Bond kneels up, back in view once again. There’s a shine of spittle resting under his lower lip. Seeming to sense it, he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

His face is blank in that studied, trademark 007 way of his - Max thinks he knows how to fix it.

He tugs at Bond’s shoulder.

‘Here, stand up, let me-’

In all honesty, his back can’t take anything more vigorous tonight - but he likes the thought of a lazy reciprocal: him sitting where he is; Bond standing, thrusting into his mouth, hands on the back of Max’s head-

‘Let's get you back in bed.’

Bond pats him on the leg, flashes him a shallow smile then stands, offering a hand to help him.

Max ignores it.

‘Oh. You don't-?’

But obviously he doesn’t. A man who did wouldn’t be holding out his hand like he’s retiring from the match. Or suggesting putting him to bed like a five-year-old.

Now that the bump isn't obscuring his line of sight, he can see Bond’s semi; perky but unsure, bobbing barely a foot away from Max's face.

‘We've got an early start tomorrow.’

Bond sounds apologetic. Max has no idea what to do with that.

‘Right.’

Max scrabbles for his dignity. He stands, forces himself to look Bond in the eye. Bond almost flinches, he could swear it.

‘It's not-’

‘No no,’ Max cuts him off, too quickly to be flippant. ‘That’s fine. Well - thank you, I suppose.’

It wouldn’t take a spy to see that he’s pissed off, but any residual energy that Max could have channeled into hiding his emotions was recently sucked out of his cock. So he’s not going to beat himself up over it.

Bond looks like he's debating saying something else, but Max doesn’t want to hear it. He turns on his heel before he says something he regrets.

In the dark quiet of his room, he snaps shut the adjoining door then climbs carefully back into bed, rolling onto his side to ease the strain on his back.

Eyes closed, he concentrates very hard on keeping his mind blank so he doesn't curse himself.

After a while, he hears the bathroom light flick off and sound of Bond returning to his own room.

 

***

 

It's nearing half five when Max walks into Lab 2 and sees Bill in conversation with two disgruntled senior weapons engineers. Sensing danger from the very precise look of calm propped up on Bill’s face, Max joins the group and asks what the problem is.

‘005's altered another prototype without authorisation.’

Well that would explain why Chang and Simon look like someone's shat on their birthday cake.

‘The modified HK417?’ asks Max, though he hardly knows why he bothers.

Chang gives a terse nod.

‘She overrode the lock on the weapons store and went overnight,’ he mutters. ‘Pissed about with it for a few hours and now the thing's useless.’

Max exchanges a significant look with Tanner, who dismisses the others with a quick thanks.

‘This has to stop,’ says Max, as soon as they're alone. ‘I won’t have her compromising our testing process again. Everything we give her, she treats as an audition for a weapons tech job.’

‘Can’t you just hire her as a weapons tech?' Bill is clearly nearing his wits' end. ‘Give her a week as a work experience placement so she can get it out her system?’ 

‘No,’ says Max, flatly. ‘Her ideas are shit. And besides, I don't _need_ another tech.’

(This is a lie - he needs approximately two more of every staff member in his section, including himself.)

‘What I need is for you to assign me a double-oh for semi-regular prototype testing who isn’t going to put knobs on every bit of kit they get their hands on. So if you would do us all a favour and send 005 back out to the field to burn off her excess ‘creativity’, it would be much appreciated.’

Bill sighs and casts his eyes skywards.

‘Yes, ok. Consider 005 officially removed from testing duties.’

‘Thank you,’ says Max, and smiles sweetly.

‘You can have 007 for now - we’ve not got a new assignment lined up for him yet, since Caracas fell through.’

Max’s stomach drops.

‘Absolutely not,’ he says, before he can stop himself. ‘Not again.’

He can't do this; he’s spent three weeks dexterously avoiding Bond at all costs, and yet again he's expected to be in close quarters with him on a regular basis?

‘I thought you two were getting along well?’ Bill sounds genuinely surprised. ‘Was he acting up at Kettlebank?’

‘No no. Nothing like that.’

Max feels himself reddening. There's a conversation coming that he really doesn’t want to have.

‘We just.’ He stammers, unsure. ‘I mean, I'd just prefer if you assigned someone else.’

_Someone who doesn’t regret fathering an unplanned pregnancy and pity-blowing me on a business trip._

He'd spent the four-hour drive back in silence, looking out the window and wondering how best to travel back in time by a day so that you can drown yourself in the hotel sink rather than undertake any more ill-advised sexual exploits with your colleague.

He's not in a rush to repeat the experience.

A twinge of uncharacteristic annoyance flickers over Bill's face.

‘We're not exactly swimming with options Q, so I’m going to need a better reason than that.’

Max straightens his glasses, rubs two fingers between his brows.

He needs to do this sooner or later, Max reminds himself. And sooner has already passed. It's been hanging over him for weeks - even the worst outcome will be a relief.

He looks back to Bill, and doesn't even try for faux-casual.

‘Meet me at The Earl for a drink in half an hour. There’s something we should talk about.’

 

 

Bill's face is entirely covered by his hands, and he’s letting out a moan like he's just waking up to the world's worst hangover.

‘Look, I know it's not ideal,’ Max tries to placate him, pushes Bill’s pint further towards his elbow. ‘But on the bright side-’

‘No,’ groans Bill, face still buried. ‘Don't bother: there is obviously no bright side to this.’

Max grimaces, wipes a bead of perspiration away from the glass.

‘Well, no. There's not. But me telling you of my own accord rather than waiting for you to find out makes it marginally less likely that you and M will have me killed quietly.’

At that, Bill looks up.

‘I may yet kill you myself, and there'll be nothing quiet about it. Only, knowing my luck, your child will grow up plotting to avenge you and I'll be gruesomely done away with just when I'm gearing up for retirement.’

Max smiles, bizarrely heartened that in this hideous parallel, Bill has decided to let his child live before ordering his execution.

Bill sighs wearily.

‘Do I want to know how it happened?’

‘No,’ admits Max. ‘But you know you have to ask.’

Bill nods his agreement and takes a bracing gulp of beer.

‘I mean, I didn't _mean_ to lie,’ Max starts, keen to head off accusations that he can’t honestly defend himself against. ‘It's all as I explained before. But it turns out Bond was at Moneypenny's birthday too, and given his lack of objection to sex in public and in entirely unhygienic spaces...’

Max trails off, offers an awkward shrug.

Bill looks rather pale. He takes another drink, swallows loudly, then looks at Max dead on.

‘Look, Max. In a professional capacity, but also as your friend, I have to say this: if there is any suggestion at all that Bond's behaviour that night was unwelcome-’

Max tries not to choke on his elderflower cordial.

‘Oh god, no. No no no.’

Really, the last thing he needs right now is mandatory post-trauma counselling and having one of his agents removed from the roster because they’ve been incorrectly accused of sexual assault.

‘I was embarrassingly rat-arsed, but I was fully conscious.’

Bill is clearly relieved. And perhaps a little put out that his opportunity for chivalry has been closed off.

Max frowns, squinting as he recalls: ‘In fact if memory serves, I may have been the one to initiate it-’

‘Ok,’ Bill cuts in. ‘No thank you. Spare me the gory details, please. Anything you don't tell me is another thing that I don't have to tell M.’

Max clears his throat.

‘Right, yes. Of course.’

Yes, on second thoughts, probably best not to tell Bill that recent events have awakened an unconfirmed memory of walking up behind someone ( _Bond? It must have been Bond?_ ) at the bar and haphazardly grabbing their arse in a way that he probably thought was subtle at the time.

‘How did Bond take it anyway? Is he-?’

‘Oh no.’ Max waves a hand dismissively. ‘He’ll keep his distance.’

A few weeks ago there would have been a _thank god_ at the end of that sentence, but for some reason he can't bring himself to add it on now.

'Are you sure he doesn't-?’ Bill’s face creases. ‘I mean - he's a good man. Or at least, he knows how to be when it's required.’

Max shakes his head, but otherwise ignores the question. In circumstances such as these, he has no idea what constitutes a good man. Or what use one would be to him even if he did.

He reaches for his sad little soft drink. So far, he hadn’t been missing alcohol, but this conversation is making him feel bereft without it. He gives his bump an accusing stare, then pats it guiltily, afraid the baby might absorb his ill-feeling.

When he looks up again, Bill’s face has softened.

‘How are you anyway?’

Max hesitates. It's been such a nightmarish few weeks, he can't bring himself to say ‘excited!’, ‘great!’, or any other bollocks in a similar vein. But he doesn't know how to explain his real fears without sounding like an incompetent headcase who shouldn't be trusted with childcare.

Bill must see his discomfort, because his mouth twitches into a wry smile. His voice is companionable when he says:

‘Stupid question: you’re bricking it. Of course you are. Every day is a waking nightmare of nerves, pathetic self-flagellation, and existential dread. I was the same with both of mine, and that was even given the fact that Anna was doing all of the heavy lifting.’

Max nods, sadly resigned.

‘Completely bricking it,' he agrees. He looks helplessly at Bill. ‘When does that end?’

‘Oh,’ says Bill cheerily, reaching for his glass. ‘It never ends.’

 


	8. Chapter 8

He shells out to have the study repainted in the end. He has the money after all, and there’s no point in making his parents do it, or in struggling through himself and doing a piss-poor job. Jigsaw and Hierocles are discomfited enough by the strange smells and the overalled trespassers that they take to sleeping in Max’s bed, as they have not done since his uni days. Though he grumbles when they clamber up to join him, he’s grateful for the warm company.

He doesn’t need to worry about hair getting on the sheets: it's been months - he doesn’t want to think about exactly how many - since he brought anyone back, and there's no prospect of that changing in the foreseeable future.

The realisation is freeing and sad: the unmanageable state of permanent arousal has ceased to be an issue, but he's always been a physical being, and he misses touching and being-touched more than it was possible to imagine when he wasn't regularly going without.

M calls him in for an I'm-not-angry-I'm-just-disappointed chat, then lets him get on with things. Caracas comes unexpectedly back on the table, and Max is sure he must be grateful that Bond is out of his hair for a few weeks. The relief is probably just buried under his heavy workload.

He thinks of the bathroom; of the hole in his t-shirt and the hand on Max's knee, of speaking with a grace that Max had never bothered to offer. And thinks that, maybe, when Bond is back in the country, Max will speak to him.

But then he thinks of the dismissal, of the bathroom light going out. And he changes his mind.

Adrian and Molly have him round for dinner. He goes to Mothercare with Eve and they only last ten minutes before they bail and head to Nandos.

The baby kicks away happily.

 

***

 

It’s hard to think straight as the surgeon is talking to him - but then maybe he shouldn’t be thinking at all. This seems to be a situation for listening to the person who knows more about this stuff and nodding at the right moments.

But he's never been good at that, and he's not likely to start being so with an expanding steel balloon in his skull, pressing out and out so hard and fast that it might wrench his eyes apart.

‘Max,’ the doctor chimes through. ‘Are you still with us?’ He's bending lower into Max's vision, solidifying in front of him.

‘Yes. Yep, sorry.’

But no, surely he's somewhere else. Asleep in bed - at home, while this dream is torments only his subconscious.

‘That's quite alright; it's a lot to take in.’ The doctor - what was his name? He's sure he's been told - speaks seriously, as though he’s explaining something complex to a slow child. ‘Max, I'd like to get you into surgery as soon as possible. I know the risks sound scary, but at this stage we aren't left with another option.’

‘Right.’ The smell of vomit from his gown is clouding everything. He looks down at his hands, where they clutch at his stomach - he’s become puffy and pink, buffoonish under the strip lighting.

He turns to look back at the doctor and the balloon pulses again - he's sure his skull is creaking, cracking, splitting at a seam.

‘Have you spoken to my mum?’

It's too soon - it’s much too soon. He can't do it but he needs someone to tell them that. To tell them that they need to find another way.

‘She's on her way with your dad. They'll be here to see you when you wake up.’

The doctor squeezes his shoulder.

Ten more weeks. There was still so much left to do - so much more growing to be done. He kicks sometimes, but it's not enough.

Max starts to say something else, but the pain becomes too sharp and bright, slicing up all the soft tissue behind his eyelids and nose.

There's a riot of shrill beeping, and then nothing much at all.

 

***

 

Waking is like being exhumed at speed. He comes up with a twitch and muted throngs of pain in his neck and deep below his skin.

His mouth is open and crusted at the side. He snaps it shut and tries to swallow, but everything is dry, limbs leaden shaky.

The light has changed; some time has passed since the doctor and his grey-sky face.

Trying to sit up sends pain shooting through his abdomen but when he sees that the room - a different one - is empty, fresh panic swells in his chest and he casts his gaze around for a call button, a sign of life or clue to events. He doesn’t look down, but he knows that beneath him his stomach is deflated; loose and alien.

There’s no cot that he can see. He thinks about screaming.

The door opens: his father walks in, holding a polystyrene cup. He blinks as he sees Max awake, then rushes over to him.

‘Dad. What's happened? Where is he?’ His speech is shrill, faster than he intends. He should slow down, be calmer - what if they won’t take him _seriously_ -

In a moment, Dad is standing over him, cup discarded - hands reassuring his cheek and shoulder.

‘He's alright, Maxy. He's alright - lie back down, there you go. He's doing well.’ Dad's face is a breaking dawn. ‘They're looking after him. They've had to take him through to the neonatal ward, but he's doing well.’

Everything stutters - the lights must blink, or surely the power goes down for a second. There's a moment where he can't see, then everything roars back to life around him.

‘You mean-?’

Max sags back against the bed, muscles trembling from the exertion.

Dad nods and strokes his matted hair back from his forehead, still grinning like a dope.

‘Congratulations sweetheart.’

 

They wheel him down the hall, into a lift, round corners and down a final stretch of corridor, lined with plump, pixelated babies, each with a paragraph of text underneath with their names next to improbably low weights, and a line about how far they've come.

He supposes they only show the success stories.

The nurse pushing him stops at the keypad secure door - and how long would it take him to get through that, on a good day? - reaches for the antibacterial gel, and explains about hygiene and rules, and _no one with chickenpox_.

He tries to listen, but he looks past her to:

_Maisie_

_28 weeks_

_2lb 4oz_

Maisie’s a cheery, lumpen thing now - grinning gummily out from the peeling yellow wall.

‘...there's a lot of machinery inside so ask about anything you like. All the noises and everything can be a bit much at first.’

The nurse smacks a button and the doors open.

Inside is warm like a rainforest and crowded with perspex, tubes, and wheels in every corner. It's not so very different from the bio labs at work, except that on every wall and every other stand there are monitors; out of date Dell plasmas pushing out readings and squiggles.

He's never met so many numbers that he can make neither head nor tail of.

 

***

 

Minutes after he's finally bribed his parents out the flat with promises of feeding and resting himself, they're at the door again.

Steeling his smile for their _so silly of us_ routine, he buzzes them back up without waiting to hear what item of convenient miscellany they've left behind this time, and hovers in the hallway.

_He's only a few feet away_ , he reminds himself, unable to look away from the open kitchen door. _Come on - nothing's going to happen while you wait here for two minutes_.

He's so busy straining his ears for untoward sounds coming from the kitchen that it's not until the footsteps have reached his landing that he registers them as being quite unlike either of his parents'.

He weighs his relief against the potential annoyance of a Save The Children pusher and swings the door open at the sound of the knock.

His internal organs lurch up three inches.

He swallows and they almost move back into place. But his pulse stays uptempo. His hand twitches where it grips the door.

Even in jeans and rolled-up sleeves he’s smart - dry as a bone and neatly trimmed around the edges. Venezuela has left him tanned.

‘Thought I'd drop by,’ says Bond.

And in fairness to him, he really does look for all the world like a man who actually did just have a stupid idea and followed it through on a whim. Max knows that look well enough, but on Bond it's an uncomfortable fit.

_Drop by_? As if a bullet could be at a loose end.

‘Right,’ says Max, sceptically.

‘Moneypenny told me what happened.’

He doubts that Eve told him any such thing. She may have hinted though, and Max can believe - though he doesn't much want to - that Bond might have been concerned enough to do his own research.

He knows the thought process that has led Bond here: six weeks of his usual avoidance tactics (spirits and women with self-esteem issues) have failed him, so he’s woken up, taken a shower and, as he laced up his shoes, told himself that if he just wanders to the area - _just_ _drops by_ \- he’ll satiate his curiosity.

Prove to himself that he’s not affected. Nip it in the bud.

As though Max and his family are a dose of quinine to be knocked back.

He feels himself dragging in a breath, fully intending to snap out that it’s not his problem if Bond hasn't managed to sufficiently suppress all human emotions this time around.

But he cuts himself off before he can start the deserved tirade and looks at Bond’s uncomfortably casual face for a moment.

What good will it do, telling him what he nearly lost and what he can’t be blamed for - or trying to make him value that which he he's too damaged to understand.

Max won't shout, because he won’t do this to himself again - has no need to. What he needs is to lie down, press a pillow against his stomach, and make what he can of an hour or so's silence before the next wail from the baby monitor.

What little energy he ever had to expend on exasperating confrontations with a five foot ten emotional roadblock has evaporated in a cloud of stitches and night feeds.

‘How is he?’

The question jolts him. He's been standing, blank-eyed and deliberately un-angry, for longer than he realised.

But more jolting than the words are the way in which Bond says them. He doesn't _sound_ casual or unattached - and not at all like a man who's asking because it's expected of him. He sounds like a man stumbling in the desert, asking for water though he knows there is none.

And there's an encyclopaedia of ways to answer; a list of near misses and statistics - pounds and ounces, days and weeks, lists of drugs and medical apparatus. And there’s the worn-out _he’s fine, we’re both fine, doing well_.

But for all that Bond has earned his anger, Max knows that he doesn't have it in him to be that cruel.

‘Come in and see him.’

Bond flinches. ‘I don’t-’

‘James,’ Max flattens him. ‘Don’t expect me to offer again.’

 

A nervousness unlike what he had anticipated settles on him. He worries momentarily that he might accidentally lead them to the wrong doorway, as though the flat is not his own.

How he must he look? Mum and Dad's visit has at least meant that he could shower today, but he's still in pyjamas, shuffling along with his eyes barely propped open. There are milk stains on his top.

Something flickers hotly within him, and when he recognises it as embarrassment, resentment flames up to join it. A strange, defensive desire to shout: _Well_ _you try doing this twenty four hours a day - you just fucking try it_ _and see how good you look_.

But then they're in the kitchen, and his brain resets. The bouncy chair is sitting on the table, just as it was, moments ago. The dishwasher churns. He’s not sure why bothered to be annoyed.

In his chair he is wriggling, wide awake.

Max pries him out and shushes him as he protests at the seismic shift in his world view. Luckily, his miniscule heart isn't in it and he stops his nascent, curdling cries as he's settled in familiar arms. Max bounces him; kisses his forehead and runs a thumb over his splotchy cheek.

His saucer eyes flicker over Max's face. He pokes his tongue out and Max pokes his back.

When he tears himself away, he sees Bond has frozen in the doorway. For the first time in months there's someone in this flat who’s more visibly terrified than him. It's a perverse booster to his own budding parenting skills.

‘This is Theodore,’ he offers, gently. ‘Theodore, James.’ He rocks him a little in his arms and waits for a response.

Bond is transfixed.

‘You named him?’

‘That is what one typically does with a child.’

‘Theodore.’

‘Yes.’

He can't care if Bond likes it or not, not now - but he can't pretend that the thought didn’t cross his mind when he picked it.

‘Would you like to hold him?’

He knows better than to wait for an answer so he steps over and presses Theo into Bond's chest then makes as if to stand back - so that Bond’s arms come up automatically to meet him. He settles Theo’s head in the crook of Bond’s elbow and quickly steps away before the man’s brain stops short-circuiting and he insists Max take the baby back.

There's a moment of stillness where Bond is still stiff as a mannequin and resolutely not looking down. Theodore threatens to scream at being deposited in such an ambivalent cradle and Max worries for a churning split second that if he does, Bond might drop him onto the kitchen tiles and flee.

But then Bond's shoulders loosen, and he looks down - actually _looks_ this time - and Max lets out a breath.

Theodore gurns a bit.

Max forces himself to stand back a fraction, absorb the strange way time bends around them.

After a while, Bond murmurs:

‘He's small.’

Max could make a comment about that being the case with babies, but he senses that - in his own constipated way - Bond is asking a question. So he nods, tries to explain what he can without raising ugly memories.

‘They had to tube feed him for the first week or so - after that, it was hard to feed him normally. It's not so unusual, when they're premature - or that's what they said, anyway.’

He wants to tell Bond that he was a good size, for how early he was - that he was lucky, that they both were. But it seems like giving away more than he’s ready to part with.

When he was wheeled past the other incubators to see Theodore for the first time, all he’d seen was scraps of filmy magenta flesh - little lab rat things, smothered in wires and distorted by the perspex. A few other parents were there, touching them through portholes, or looking on through the plastic.

The relief he'd felt when he was brought to a scrawny, wrinkled, eyes-tight-shut baby - less lurid and transparent than the others - was matched ounce for ounce in horror. Even when he’d put a hand to one of Theodore’s flailing, skinny ankles. Even when the nurses tucked them together skin-to-skin.

In the first days, no matter how much he ached to touch him when they were separated, he dreaded actually doing so. When he finally held him, Max was stiff and terrified - convinced that Theodore was too vulnerable, that he ought to be back in the safe restriction of the incubator.

Bond nods, jaw tight as he looks down at their son.

‘I'm sorry,’ he says, voice an inch from cracking. ‘I wasn’t there.’

‘No,’ says Max. Because what else is there? ‘You weren't.’

 


	9. Chapter 9

‘How are you, hmm? You look like you’re still having a right fucking time of it.’

He hmms back and shrugs. She smells fresh and perfumed - he’s aware he does not.

‘Can’t complain.’

‘I think you ought to complain a lot. Loudly. For at least a decade.’

She hangs her coat up and tails him into the kitchen. He doesn’t acknowledge her assessing stare - a benefit of not being in the field any more; she doesn’t have to hide when she’s sizing people up.

She changes tack.

‘Is he sleeping?’

‘Just put him down - should be out for a few hours.’

‘Which means you should be too.’

He shakes his head; he feels twitchy and raw and knows he can’t yet.

‘Tea?’ he offers.

‘Why yes, Max. I’d love to make some,’ she deadpans. ‘Now sit down.’

So he’s failed her once-over physical, but he knows better than to complain. He’s grateful, really, to have a guest that doesn’t require a half-hour explanation of his recent medical trauma, topped off with fifteen minutes of insincere but exhausting reassurance that it’s not so bad really.

Before her first visit she’d clearly done her research - looked up all the scary words like _eclampsia_ and _apnoea_ that M must have briefed her on with his strange tax-return sincerity. She’d gone away on her lunch break and delved into it all, from emergency responder call logs to established medical journals. She won’t even have realised she was doing it - at this stage, performing detailed research on members of staff in is so ingrained in her daily routine that she probably can’t even feel herself doing it - she must believe she just comes to know it all by osmosis.

He sets the baby monitor on the coffee table in the living room, and eases down onto the couch, holding in an old-man grunt as he does so.

Eve calls through to him as the kettle roars and she clatters about; passes on congratulations from his team, lists people who are asking after him, asks if there’s a food bin for the tea bags. He responds only where necessary, feeling like an arse for not saying more.

When she places a mug by his knee and sits next to him on the sofa it’s not so different to the fragile Saturdays they’ve shared, queasy and wracked with fear about what they said to Paul from recruitment when they were blind drunk in the pub. Exhausted and confessional.

When his tea is half-gone and getting a little too cool he says: ‘Bond was here.’

Because he thinks she might already know and because he wants to say it to see if, when he does, the words crack under the weight of their improbability.

‘Just now?’ Her rushed surprise suggests a real ignorance, and the words seem credible even when the sight of the man in his doorway didn’t.

‘Day before yesterday.’

The occasion is unusually firm in his mind; clear and distant in the oppressive, terry-cloth forgetfulness that clouds everything in the flat.

‘Asked if he could come back this weekend.’

‘You kept that one quiet.’

Her eyebrows are raised, eyes bulging in that pleased, scandalised way. He swills the tea in his mug, creates a whirlpool. He ought to have a story to tell her - an argument, or a resolution - but he and Bond have barely even had a conversation, never mind formed an anecdote.

An uncanny, achingly gentle facsimile of Bond had emerged for a while and cradled his son - fastened him, wriggling, back into the chair - pressed a kiss on his forehead. And just as gently, he’d straightened, walked out the kitchen and back down the stairs.

And they’d been left there - one gurgling, one nothing - and it hadn’t seemed that they were bitter medicine, or that Bond had immunised himself against anything after all.

‘Not much to tell, really,’ he shrugs.

 

***

 

‘Stop texting back,’ says Bond, simply.

They’re in Max’s kitchen, finishing up lunch - or rather, Bond is finishing his lunch and Max is trying to avert a minor international security crisis.

‘I bloody well can’t,’ Max snaps. ‘They need access to one of the more esoteric weapons schematics stores but it’s been locked down so only high-level personnel can get in and M, R, and H are all unavailable. And of course it’s urgent so I have to gain remote access and transfer the files over to them. All of which is completely illegal and far less secure than them just being able to go in and get the physical plans themselves.’

He spends the next half hour in the study sorting it all out - he could have done it in much less, but this way he’s ignoring fewer protocols and doesn’t have to suffer the indignity of hacking so much of his own system.

When he wanders back to the kitchen, Bond is scrubbing the casserole dish. Another of his strange flights of fancy that has emerged since he took up his regular visits: getting back in the early hours of the morning from Finland or Gabon or wherever the hell he’s been, and turning up here at midday with all the ingredients for a parmigiana.

Usually when this sort of thing has been occurring over the past three months, Max has assumed it’s because Bond needs a fast distraction from whatever messy job he’s returned from, and his usual selection of expensive bars and loose women aren’t available at eleven in the morning.

Or maybe he had all the ingredients ready for a date, but the woman in question has gone back to her billionaire mafioso husband and Bond didn’t want to waste the aubergine.

He doesn’t feel great about being used as coping mechanism, but he reckons that so long as Bond doesn’t have a psychotic break near Theodore, no great harm can come of it.

‘Not a great security measure, if it makes everything less secure,’ muses Bond, as he squirts out more Fairy liquid.

It takes him a moment to realise what he’s referring to.

‘Oh, yes.’ Max lets out a frustrated sigh. ‘One of Bad Max’s crap ideas that we hadn’t removed yet.’

Because apparently toppling his regime and having M throw him off a balcony wasn’t enough to rid them of his bureaucratic initiatives.

‘Bad Max?’

‘What we used to call Denbigh. Did he not do his ‘call me Max’ routine with you as well?' asks Max, surprised. 'Though I suppose you would’ve ignored it on principle.’

He’s trying to sound weary but knows he comes off fond. He used to find Bond’s anti-authoritarianism strange for one so imbued with military discipline, but he’s come to recognise its haphazard, schoolboyish patterns.

‘I didn’t like to call him Max,’ Bond admits. He sounds a little sheepish. ‘Not when we already had one.’

‘Oh.’

Max blinks. It’s not quite the rationale he’d been expecting.

‘But. You don’t call me Max.’

And it’s true: Bond never has. When he’s called him anything at all, Bond has always called him Q - not even Browning, like some of the other staffers. Since Theodore, it’s felt odd, but Bond seems to prefer it that way.

‘I knew your name,’ says Bond. As though that’s that.

Well of course he did. It would have been more of an effort _not_ to know it - Mallory’s name isn’t even a secret within the Service, for fuck’s sake. But the idea that Bond _thought_ of him by his name is jarring.

Bond looks uncomfortable - he’s said more than he intended.

‘Right. But-’ Max falters. ‘I mean. Would you _like_ to call me Max?’

He expects Bond will say no. Of course he’ll say no: the man’s an Edwardian out of time - he probably thinks that calling people by their surnames is the last defence that honest Englishmen have against anarchy.

‘Not if it makes you uncomfortable,’ says Bond.

He’s stopped scrubbing the pot, but he’s still looking at it.

That’s not a no.

‘Right,’ says Max, completely thrown. ‘Well, honestly - Q’s not really not my name outside the office. So if it’s all the same to you, let’s trial ‘Max’.’

Bond turns away from the sink, and to Max’s surprise, he looks miffed.

‘I mean, you don’t have to?’ he appeases. ‘But I feel a bit weird about being called ‘Q’ when there’s a child attached to my nipple.’

‘Well. I thought you preferred it,’ says Bond, frustrated.

‘Thought I preferred ‘Q’?’ Heavens, no. I thought you did. Otherwise, why-?’

Max stops and wrinkles his nose. He lets out a pained snort.

They've both spent the last three months making flimsy assumptions on what the other prefers, and each stoically soldiered on feeling needlessly awkward. Excellent work.

But he can't say that, so he settles for:

'I suppose we've misunderstood one another.'

‘So it would seem,’ mutters Bond, and turns back to the sink.

He should hail it as progress, really. They’ve addressed an issue and come to a satisfactory resolution - it’s taken them months when it should have taken five minutes but, never mind that, the fact is they’ve fixed it - and he should quit while he’s ahead.

But then.

‘Bond?’

‘Yes?’ says Bond, strained.

Clearly that intense heart-to-heart about calling Max 'Max' has really taken it out of him. Christ.

 _Did you like me?_ is what he wants to ask. _When you refused to call Denbigh ‘Max’, was it because you actually quite liked me?_

From the moment he and Bond met, he’d thought they got along - thought that he’d earned a grudging respect and that Bond tolerated his presence rather more than most others’ in MI6. It had all been shattered when he found out who the other man in the toilet stall was, and he’d seen - thought he’d seen? - that he’d been entirely wrong to think of their relationship kindly.

Driving into the sunset with Dr Swann in the car that Max had slaved over and leaving behind a bottle of Champagne as a humiliating stand-in for a thank-you card would have been quite the demonstration of cruelty to a man that Bond thought was infatuated with him. No matter that Max had never actually felt what Bond supposed - they weren’t the actions of someone who considered their Quartermaster a friend.

But he hears _I knew your name_ and suddenly his current analysis of last year’s events doesn’t sit right.

He looks at Bond - back still to him, hands gripping the edge of the Belfast sink - and swallows.

‘We should take Theodore to the park, when he’s awake. He likes the ducks.’

He should quit while he’s ahead.

Bond nods, tersely, and goes back to scrubbing.

 

***

 

Bond doesn’t actually come to the park, of course. Not that day, and not any of the summer days that follow.

Going out in public would involve the risk of - heaven forbid - being seen with Max and Theodore, so Max usually leaves Bond room to scarper back to reality, then heads out with Theo himself. He misses the company of humans who can actually speak, but not of the ones who can hardly speak without forcing him to navigate the complex minefield of Topics That Should Not Be Discussed - But I’ll Leave You To Work Out Which Ones In Particular Will Make Me Really Grumpy.

So far he has set off enough explosions of mono-syllabic silent-tantrum-throwing to know that this includes (but is not limited to):

  * Madeleine Swann
  * Scotland
  * The future
  * Max’s ex-boyfriend, Adam*
  * Bond’s feelings
  * Why are you so grumpy
  * Certain recent missions
  * Boots meal deals
  * Are you going to stop being grumpy any time soon because if not you should fuck off back to your flat



*In fairness, Max knew full well that one would go down like a sack of shit, but he was pissed off that extending Bond an invitation to talk about the - he assumed neutral - topic of weather in the Highlands had caused such offence, so he decided to retaliate.

On one such venture outdoors in early October he’s accompanied, unusually, by Adrian. He’s come to ‘be a proper uncle’ by taking Theodore to the Natural History Museum to look at dinosaurs, and insisted on taking a day off work so that they can avoid the hordes that descend at the weekends.

They’ve paused to read about the muscle makeup of velociraptors. As far as he can gather from the infographics and explanatory panels, modern paleontological research actually has no idea what dinosaur soft tissue was like, or indeed what colours they were - everyone’s basically just assuming that they were quite similar to lizards.

He wonders if he could get away with that at work: ‘No sir, haven’t bothered to work out what the Russians are up to in Ukraine yet - I’m assuming it’s similar to what they were up to in Ukraine sixty years ago. Don’t see why it wouldn’t be.’

Actually, that strategy would probably keep him afloat for a good six months before anyone caught on.

Theodore grabs onto Adrian’s shirt pocket and smiles, drool working its way happily down his chin.

'Look at you - are you being a dinosaur too?’ Adrian coos. ‘Catching me with your mighty jaws!’

Theodore gurgles happily, and flails in agreement.

Adrian makes dinosaur-jaw pincers with his own hands, and snaps them around Theodore’s head, diving out of reach when Theodore tries to snatch hold of him. A middle-aged grump clears his throat pointedly as he tries to read the infographic that they’re blocking. Adrian ignores him and keeps up the pincer game.

It’s always a bit of a kick in the teeth - seeing other people with Theodore like this. Especially Adrian, and sometimes with Bond too. He doesn’t mean to be ungrateful - it’s not that he doesn’t like to share - but it reminds him that he’s not much fun to be around most of the time.

‘Do you think we ought to go to the Mammals gallery?’ Max asks, suddenly worried. ‘There might be more there that he can recognise, instead of bones and diagrams - he’s probably bored.’

Also, he’s sure the animatronic T.Rex will scare the shit out of him.

Adrian looks up from the game, leaves his hand hovering in mid-air for Theodore to grab onto.

‘I can state with absolute authority that Theodore has no idea we’re even in a museum, let alone has a preference for Blue Whales over dinosaurs.’

He has the same concerned half-smile on his face that he did when Max asked him all those years ago: how do you know when a girl likes you? It’s the look he gets when he knows you’re asking the wrong question, before you quite know it yourself.

‘Maximilian. We’re not here to teach Theodore about dinosaurs. We’re on a daytrip because you’ve spent the last four months pacing around in your flat with next to no adult conversation, and I chose a museum because I know for a fact that you like criticising the methodology of the curators.’

'Oh,' says Max, embarrassed. 'Well I just think they take far too much artistic licence.'

After lunch, Theodore is not happy when Max tries to strap him onto Adrian’s chest instead of his own. But as the opportunity to have someone else carry him is so rare, he decides to be heartless and continue squeezing him into the carrier, limb by resistant limb.

His red face scrunches up and he screams louder.

Most people feel uncomfortable around a wailing infant. Adrian - defiant of this particular evolutionary trait - is fantastically unconcerned.

‘Come on mate, this won’t do. Let’s give your dad a break from lugging you around, you little lump.’

He tickles Theodore’s chin and the screaming intensifies.

‘I don’t think he likes me,’ says Adrian, cheerfully.

Theodore’s solitary tuft of hair is plastered to his sweaty forehead. He swings an arm at force and one of his fingernails catches on Max’s cheek.

‘Well right now I don’t think anyone here much likes _him_ ,’ mutters Max.

He finally succeeds in getting the offending arm through the correct hole in the carrier and looks up triumphantly.

Surely Theodore’s screeching will soon dip above the frequency at which adults can detect sound, and they’ll all be given some peace.

People at nearby tables are pointedly not staring at them. Some boho mother in the queue is ostentatiously playing with her placid child, tucked up happily in a stupid hemp sling.

‘God, he’s a nightmare, Maximilian - you should give him back,’ says Adrian, still grinning like a dope.

‘The thought has occurred. He’ll stop in a minute - once he gets used to it.’

He knows he doesn’t sound convincing.

They set off for the Mammals gallery and the screaming bounces along the corridors and high ceilings. Max rolls his shoulders and enjoys the absence of weight from his torso.

‘Does he do this when he’s with his other dad?’ asks Adrian.

And there it is, the only downside to spending time with his brother: Adrian has absolutely no reservations about bringing up what you’d rather not discuss. If a subject interests him, he judges that he has a right to information on it.

It’s something they have in common, if expressed differently. Max has always found that there’s no electronic device, firewall, or engine that can resist his efforts to crack it open and meddle. And he’s at his best not when he wants in for the sake of it, but when he’s desperate to know every nut and bolt of the structure in front of him.

Adrian doesn’t pry to get the better of you - he pries because he finds you interesting, and he thinks that it’s an acceptable way to get to know you. Bond would hate him.

Max heaves a sigh.

‘I’m not sure ‘other dad’ is an apt term.’

Adrian chuckles.

‘What term are we using then?’

‘At the moment he’s providing drop-in parenting services on an irregular basis. What does that make him?’

As he says it, he wonders if he’s being unfair. But then he thinks of all the nights that he’s fallen asleep on the sofa with BBC News 24 humming in front of him and Theodore in his arms, because he hasn’t wanted to put him back in his cot where he won’t be able to feel his rabbit-rapid heartbeat. And it’s not the sleeplessness that makes you a parent, but he doubts that Bond ever _worries_. Or at least, not like Max does.

‘Sounds like a fairy godfather,’ muses Adrian.

‘I think I’d call it freelancing.’

‘Has he been offered a permanent contract?’

Max stops short and turns to face Adrian.

He’s stopped too, and bounces a slightly mollified Theodore. Behind them, a stuffed kangaroo glares balefully from its glass prison.

‘What?’ he asks - wilfully unconcerned by his younger brother’s frustration. ‘It’s a fair question.’

‘If you knew him, you’d know that it’s not,’ snaps Max. ‘And he wouldn’t be interested.’

‘So he hasn’t been offered, is what you’re saying.’

Between them, Theodore has been confused into silence. He looks nonplussed by the sudden lack of movement, but seems to have registered that crying will get him nowhere in this instance.

‘No, I-’

‘Well either you’ve offered and he’s said no, or you’ve not offered and you don’t know.’

‘Stop being clever.’

‘No, I know: you have to be the clever one,’ sighs Adrian.

He sounds tired, a little sad. Max doesn’t like it.

‘Look, this' - Adrian gestures between Max and Theo - 'This doesn’t seem to be making you happy.’

Max’s heart drops through his stomach. He thought he had Adrian on side - he really thought-

‘I’m not talking about Theodore, you moron.' Adrian snaps. 'I’m talking about whatever this weird thing is that you’ve got going on with his dad.’

‘ _I’m_ his dad-’

But Adrian plows on.

‘When you got out of hospital, Mum and Dad were worried sick. They would have done anything - would have bought season tickets and commuted to London every day until Theodore started primary school just to help you out. We all would have. But for some reason, whenever we offer, you seem to think our hearts aren’t in it - you fob us off, or you make excuses, or you just don't let us in. So Mum and Dad have barely seen their grandson, and you’ve hardly had any sleep for four months.

‘You want to do it all - every nappy, every minute, every _everything_ the hard way - all by yourself. You always have. And, look. I know that your work’s more hush hush than Bletchley Park - I know there are things you won’t ever be able to tell us. But what I don’t understand is what it is that you think we did, Max - christ, for the life of me I can’t figure it out - what we did to you growing up that’s convinced you that we wouldn’t have your back if you just phoned up and _asked_.’

Adrian comes to a stop and blinks rapidly. His hands clench into loose fists then release again, as he turns toward a silent stuffed hare.

He looks back, more composed but eyes still glistening.

‘So I wonder, when you say- Well. I’m not sure if I can believe that this man really doesn’t want much to do with you and Theodore, or if - actually - he does, but you’ve just convinced yourself that you can’t let him try.’

 


	10. Chapter 10

Drawings of birds - tastefully rendered in watercolour and framed in dark wood - hang in every room of the holiday cottage, peering down on Max and Theo with quiet, glassy gazes. The bookcase in the living room holds volumes on birdwatching and local maps, and a pair of binoculars sit on the windowsill in the bathroom of all places. Other than this pervasive insight into the interests of the owners, the grannyish decor is unremarkable; in recent times he would have sniffed at booking it, but it’s clean and comfortable, with a modern kitchen and utility room to make easier the endless loads of washing and sterilising that three nights away with an infant can produce.

If the planning had been left to Bond, they would doubtless have ended up checking into a hotel last-minute and been told that the only remaining room was the presidential suite. If they hadn’t been killed en route in a high speed car chase.

Max settles Theodore, still in his carseat, on the scratched kitchen table and goes to help unpack the boot.

The weather at the coast is grey and muggy - altogether too warm for Autumn. Bond has discarded the leather jacket he wore for the drive, and sweats slightly in his black t-shirt. In the office he’s perennially suited, stitched in Tom Ford two-pieces, like scaffolding under silk. But in casualwear his overwrought physicality is more obscenely apparent - great, strapping ropes of sinew emerging from the neck and sleeves of his t shirt. His jeans look uncomfortably tight on his thighs.

Bond turns from the boot, laden with baby apparatus and luggage, and Max realises he’s been standing there, looking and not helping, so trots forward to try and take a bag.

Bond shakes him off and shoulders gently past.

‘I’ll take these in - you can get the rest.’

When he gets to the car, there are just two spit-soggy soft toys, his wallet, and a blanket to be gathered up - he supposes they can leave the empty Maltesers packet where it lies. Bond must have taken the rest inside while he was settling Theodore and scouting out the bedrooms.

He slams the boot shut and locks the car.

 

The beach isn’t far from the house so Max packs food into a rucksack and straps Theodore into his baby carrier, and the three of them walk down to the shore. Theodore’s eyes are wide, glossy marbles, impervious to the breeze as he takes in his surroundings.

Bond talks to Theodore as he would a grown up - well, as others would a grown up; thankfully, Bond doesn’t treat a twenty-one-week-old with the same contempt he does most adults - commenting on the weather, pointing out some of the more interesting features around them.

It’s a surprisingly interesting conversation, if one-sided. Walking astride them, Max learns about lugworms and cirrus clouds. After a while, Bond stops and looks at him.

‘What is it?’ Bond asks, severe as a schoolmaster.

‘What’s what?’

‘You’re staring.’

Max realises that, yes, he has been gawping, but then Bond’s the one who’s been acting like something out of a Boden photo shoot for the past half hour so who’s the real weirdo here?

‘It’s just you - talking to him,’ says Max, helplessly.

‘You said we were supposed to talk to him.’

‘Well yes, but.’ Max flails. He isn’t sure how to explain without saying something that sounds more meaningful than he intends. He settles on: ‘I’ve never seen you speak so much unless it was an argument.’

Bond looks aggrieved, but before he can say anything, Theodore begins to fuss - stretching out his hands and locking his eyes on Max. Bond starts jiggling him, distracting him from his overture to hysteria, but Max steps forward to free him from the baby carrier.

‘He’s hungry,’ he explains, batting away Bond’s hands. ‘C’mon sweetheart, let Daddy find something to sit on and we’ll sort you out.’

‘Something’ turns out to be a large concrete cube a hundred yards along from them - a line of similar man-made lumps stretches down the coastal path to where it curves out of sight. Bond holds Theodore while Max perches himself on its unforgiving surface.

‘I’ve always wondered what these are,’ muses Max, putting his rucksack down on the pebbled surface and perching himself on its edge. ‘Good for picnics and not much else.’

‘Anti-tank defences,’ says Bond, passing Theodore back to him. ‘Left over from the war.’

Max blinks.

‘Oh.’ Perhaps he ought to have known that. But then, he never claimed to be an expert in historic military armaments - only in how to revolutionise them. ‘Brought you in to help pour the cement did they?’

Bond attempts to look annoyed, but a smile is threatening to show when he makes to move away from Max and Theo.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I thought I’d give you some privacy.’

Bond looks very stoic.

‘You don’t have to,’ says Max. ‘I mean, I don’t mind.’

He's never minded, but he realises that he's never actually made that clear to Bond until now - always just let him wander discreetly away when it came to feeding time.

Theodore is growing angry at being denied for so long. He begins to screech, so Max ignores Bond’s crisis of chivalry and gets to settling him; unzipping his own cagoule and lifting his t-shirt out the way.

Right up until he actually tried it, he’d expected to hate this. Dreaded it, really. But now he’d say he actively enjoys it; the press of Theodore’s warm little body against his own, the way he settles instantly from crying, the look of exhausted satisfaction on his face afterwards - like a marathon finisher.

Mostly though, it was the relief he’d felt when the nurse suggested he was ready to try breastfeeding that sold it to him. Finally being able to feed without those horrible syringes of expressed milk that made him feel he was back at work for a lab procedure. Seeing him move his tiny head in that instinctual, life-grasping twitch.

Finally, he’d seen he had a baby that he could take home - a real one, made by humans rather than surgeons with wires and tubes - that he could hold and raise and feed. It was the first wave that washed away weeks trapped behind plastic, nights at home next to an empty cot, days spent listening to irregular beeping from monitors.

It was lying on the rocks, all in one piece, and realising that you’d already jumped off the cliff. And now all that could be done was to walk it off.

Beside him, Bond is making a good show of not looking - head fixed pointedly at the horizon, back a touch too rigid. Max realises he ought to throw him a bone, since he’s making him sit here - made him come all this way on Max’s guilt trip. But he doesn't know what to say.

He scrabbles, wracking his brain for a suitable conversation topic, but it's Bond who gets there first - suitability be damned.

‘So why are we here?’

His voice is soft, contemplative - sad, somehow. His eyes are still fixed on the sea.

‘I suppose.’ Max swallows, looks down to Theo’s scrunched-shut eyes, tiny fist flailing happily as he drinks. ‘I suppose I needed to get away.’

And that much is true: he had needed to. But a week of hiding in his flat, not answering the door, and fighting a losing battle against his conscience while Adrian’s words rang in his ears hadn’t helped him get away from anything at all.

So he’d booked the house on a whim, hired a car, and offered Bond the olive branch. He’s still not sure that it’s all not a terrible idea.

‘Is that all?’

Bond says it lightly, turning his cool appraisal onto Max - eyebrows raised and mouth primed for a defensive smirk. And Max could give him cause - could say _Yes:_ _I needed someone to drive the car_ \- but he knows he can’t keep doing it like that.

The words are difficult to come by though.

‘I wanted.’ Max pauses, re-settles Theodore in his arm. ‘I thought you might want to spend more time with him - more than an afternoon, anyway. I realise you hadn’t-. Well. I hadn’t given you the chance, before.’

The threatening smirk disappears from Bond’s face and a smile emerges - small, close-lipped, but dividing his cheeks into craggy lines.

It’s seems almost obvious now that Bond doesn’t see Theodore as an inconvenience, or a regrettable surprise, or any of the things that Max had supposed Bond would view him as. He’s still not sure exactly how much Bond wants to be here - what he’s willing to give or what Max is willing to take from him, but at least Adrian’s reality check has made him realise that he ought to go to the trouble of finding out.

‘So what changed?’ asks Bond.

Max looks down at Theo again, cradles his head as he pulls off, happy and full, and about to be very sleepy. Max tugs his shirt down quickly and shifts Theo round so he can be burped.

Bond is looking at him intently, he can feel the eyes burning into the side of his head.

‘My brother may have questioned my methods somewhat.’

‘I didn’t know you had a brother.’

It occurs to him that he’s gone to quite the effort to ensure that Bond doesn’t know these things. It's never been intentional, but nonetheless he's avoided mention of his family or life beyond Theo and work whenever he’s spent those odd little hours with Bond in his flat.

‘And a sister too,’ smiles Max, patting Theo’s back ineffectually. ‘Adrian’s usually the one who has more success in yanking my head out of my own arse though - oldest sibling and all that.’

‘If I ever meet him, I’ll be sure to thank him.’

Bond’s voice rumbles along with the waves.

Max has no idea what to say to that, so he lets Bond turn back to the sea and, after a moment, point out a naval ship, far in the distance.

 

 

‘Are there other children?’

He hadn’t meant to ask - or, more truthfully, hadn’t meant to ask yet - but seeing Bond sitting in the armchair, reading and untroubled, niggles at Max for the umpteenth time of the weekend.

On the playmat, Theodore has flopped over onto his belly and is squirming, beached. He lets out frustrated noises, trying to flip back.

‘What?’

Through his reading glasses, Bond’s eyes are serious.

‘Other children. I mean - do you have any?’

If he does, there’s precious little to be done about it now. But Max wants to know if Bond has many of these odd weeks away. If they’re on a rotation with offspring and mothers around the globe. If there are others that Bond doesn’t bother seeing anymore.

If there’s a cutoff point for the attention he pays to illegitimate children. If after Theodore’s second birthday, say, all the little visits will dry up.

He’s never expected Bond to be around for any of it - the nappies, the sleeplessness, the snatches of inexplicable joy or fear - so if there’s a sell-by-date for this game of almost happy families, Max is ready to know when it is.

‘How long have you been holding that one in?’

Bond is a appraising, rather than defensive - Max wonders if he’s playing for time, and doesn’t know if he should berate himself for being so cynical. Probably not, knowing spies.

Theodore is still on his belly - tensing his fists and sounding increasingly unhappy. Max itches to right him, but all the books say that learning to roll over is a form of stomach exercise - important in his development.

He seats himself on the couch adjacent to Bond, pushes his glasses up his nose.

‘You were good with Theodore - right from the off. I thought you might have had practice.’

The corners of Bond’s eyes crinkle a little; that’s not all he thought and they both know it. But directly referencing his prodigious record when it comes to the opposite sex is likely to make Bond preen, and less likely to get Max many answers.

‘You weren’t so complimentary the first time you let me change him.’

‘Bond,’ says Max, flatly.

Bond’s face clears of humour. He takes off his own glasses and closes the book, rests them both on the coffee table.

‘You know that I don’t.’

In his capacity as Quartermaster yes, he does know this. And as Quartermaster, it usually does him no good to speculate on what Bond has succeeded in concealing from the service’s records - he leaves that to M and Tanner, and others who make it their business to predict where fault lines may emerge in staff members’ allegiances.

Outside of Vauxhall, he’s not nearly so confident in the information that MI6 makes him privy to.

‘And is that the truth?’

Bond doesn't seem surprised at the persistence.

‘As best I know it,’ he admits.

He looks to the window, out at the drizzly garden. His fingers stretch over the arms of the chair. When he faces Max again, he exhales heavily through his nose - it leaves him still and open.

‘I had my fun in the navy. As much as the next man, if not more - I’m sure you’ve worked that out. But there was never any suggestion of-.’

His eyes flicker, and he gives a helpless sort of shrug before he continues.

‘They all knew my name and who I worked for, and if they’d tried to get in touch I would have known - I’m as surprised as you that no one ever did, I’d wager. Since they put me on the double-oh programme, I’ve taken - precautions.’

He says the word awkwardly, as though trying to lower a piano into a library without disturbing the peace.

‘Not when we-.’ And he’s not trying to pick a fight, really, but if awkwardness is what it takes to ease his mind, then he’s not going to balk at being difficult.

‘You asked not to,’ says Bond, cutting through his thoughts. His trace embarrassment has multiplied - he looks back to the window.

Odd, that someone so adept at crowbarring innuendo about his own prowess into professional conversation could be so averse to discussing sex with someone he’s already shagged. In the debriefs that he’s attended or read, Bond’s sexual activity has always been either smugly alluded to or meticulously described. He wonders now if the latter was only ever saved for the mission reports that required specifics.

Maybe the gentleman in Bond actually doesn’t like to share the gory details where it’s not beneficial to national security.

‘I went to the vending machine but they only had lube,’ Bond continues. ‘And we. Well, we discussed it.’

‘Oh.’ It seems unlike him, but then he’s made far stupider errors of judgement when half-cut. Also, the discord of hearing someone say 'lube' in a birdwatcher's seaside holiday cottage is throwing him a bit. ‘When you say we ‘discussed it’...?’

He can’t even begin to fathom that one. Bond’s tactful chivalry is proving most unhelpful.

Bond shifts uncomfortably.

‘Wait, no.’ Max shakes his head. ‘Don’t answer that.’

They’re getting off-topic. He didn’t start this to rehash the unwitting conception - he’s imagined enough embarrassing scenarios of how exactly that might have progressed to last him a lifetime.

Even the tamest versions feature him stumbling on his own shoelaces and slurring ‘put it in me, 007’. The more extreme include vomit and the inclusion of a passing third party. He has no desire to find out that the real version of events was even more excruciating.

Bond looks relieved.

Max is aware he hasn’t really established anything - if it suited Bond’s purposes to lie about some child he’d fathered with a Russian agent at the close of the Cold War, he would do it.

But then, if Max really wanted to find out for himself, he could do it too. Unless Bond has been in contact with his various little bastards solely by post or smoke signal - unlikely but not impossible - then there are ways for Max to find out what MI6 has considered a low-priority or swept under the rug.

Bond snorts, and Max snaps his gaze from where it had wandered to the starling above the mantelpiece.

‘What?’

‘You’re working out if it’s worth checking my story to see if I’m telling the truth - I can see the cogs turning.’ Against all odds, Bond is still genial. ‘Did I pass the test? Do you believe me?’

Max hesitates, unsure what to say and unexpectedly reluctant to break the open, amused look on Bond’s face.

But then, something in his stomach sits lighter than it did before they started this conversation. So he shrugs, allows himself to smile back.

‘I believe that you have a whole brood of Russian offspring that you genuinely know nothing about.’

 

*** 

 

He jolts from half-sleep to Bond’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him minutely. His head is lolled on the sofa-back and he can feel some escaped saliva at the corner of his open mouth. He scrambles to wipe it away as he sits up.

‘Go and lie down,’ Bond says, gently. ‘Get some sleep that won’t give you a spinal disfigurement.’

His hand is warm, squeezing Max through his t shirt. The idea is appealing - even having his eyes open at the moment is making him feel a little ill - but he shakes his head and gestures at the bedroom.

‘He’ll need fed soon. Any minute now and the air raid sirens will start.’

‘I’ll feed him.’

True enough, there are a neat row of bottles in the fridge door - he expressed before the drive down on Friday, and it will need used up or thrown away soon.

He nods, but stays put for a moment.

‘Alright. Be careful with that microwave when you heat the bottle - the timer’s not right. And shake it well afterwards, you know how they heat unevenly.’

But of course Bond knows this. Even if he hadn’t done it before, the man surely understands the basic principles of microwaves. Or is that another one of those things that Max assumes that everyone knows, when actually it’s just him? What would the lasting effects of a burned mouth be for a baby, anyway? Scarring? Damaged tongue? Most likely nothing that wouldn’t clear up sharpish, but it could make feeding difficult for weeks - he can just imagine what the screaming would be like-

‘Max,’ Bond interrupts his mounting anxiety. ‘Bed.’

Max lets out a breath, nods. He glances up at Bond and offers a smile.

‘Once I’ve summoned the energy to move.’

Bond still has a hand on his shoulder - he reaches his own up to squeeze it. Surprise flickers on Bond’s face and he realises it was an odd thing to do, but Bond lets their hands shift a little to grip properly nonetheless.

He tries to grasp what time it is. Watery sunlight is pouring in from the window - the weather is finally clearing up.

‘Is it late?’

‘No - you fell asleep while I was showering.’

‘And to think I used to regularly work forty-hour shifts in order to repel Chinese cyber attacks,’ Max muses.

Bond’s lips quirk.

‘Something tells me the MSS doesn’t rear it’s ugly head nearly as often as Theodore rears his.’

‘They’re certainly stealthier in their approach,’ Max agrees. ‘And fuck off, my baby has a beautiful head.’

Bond laughs and leans down. He kisses him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it’s brilliant; warm, lazy. Making the back of Max’s neck tingle like a spring breeze.

He ought to feel like a bit of a lemon, sitting there being kissed while Bond half-stands over him, one knee resting on the sofa cushions like he’s bending down to inspect something on Max’s face. But Max brings his other hand up to Bond’s shoulders, and when the movement doesn’t startle him into breaking away, he relaxes a little, enjoys it for what it is.

He can hear when Bond exhales through his nose, can hear his own breathing too, and the soft, wet sounds of their mouths. Bond’s hand slides up the back of his neck into his hair like a pitchfork into fresh earth and it feels lovely, lovely. And when Bond pulls back for a moment to suggest a bedroom, he thinks that sounds lovely too - a soft bed and lying down and, more of this until he sleeps, long and soundly. He hums in agreement, then stops.

His skin goes cold.

Right, _bed_.

Bond doesn’t mean sleeping.

He blinks, reaches for a response - finds none to hand or on the textured ceiling.

‘Um.’

Bond has stilled, pulled away again.

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have-’

‘No, it’s not-’. But he doesn’t know what it’s not. ‘I mean, that was great. Really nice.’

He means it. It was.

But Bond is already standing up, smoothing his jumper. Raising his eyebrows: _nice?_

He doesn’t look annoyed, but somewhere between flummoxed and his usual unreadable self. Max sees his slight bulge of arousal, and realises with a sinking feeling that his own cock is entirely offline.

Hasn't even registered that there's company.

He wants to explain himself - explain where he thought that kissing Bond was going to go if not to a mattress - but he can’t. He didn’t even pack condoms and lube - thought didn’t even cross his mind, christ - but it occurs to him that Bond probably did.

‘Sorry. Just. I didn’t think-’

‘Nothing to apologise for,’ says Bond, smoothly. ‘It was my mistake. I’ll let you take that nap.’

He’s embarrassed now. Totally fucking embarrassed. He doesn’t want to be apologising - but what else can he do? He’d like to suggest they go back to the kissing - it was going swimmingly; it’s all the other stuff that’s ballsed it up and got Bond saying class dismissed. But he can’t.

Bond moves toward the door.

‘It’s not a mistake,’ says Max, desperately.

He jumps up, as if he could dream of stopping Bond from going. But his mind is flying back to their last attempt at physical contact, to the flick of a light switch and weeks of ensuing ill-will.

Bond freezes.

‘No?’

‘No,’ agrees Max, face reddening. ‘It’s not. I’m just not sure that I-.’ His mouth twitches downwards, he feels, wrenchingly, that he might cry again. ‘I mean, I’m just not sure that this-’

He gestures between the two of them, a pointlessly vague movement that simply causes Bond to look even more brittle.

‘Bed. With you,’ he somehow manages. ‘I’m just not sure that it’s what I-. I mean, the kissing was fine.’

‘Right,’ says Bond, with all the looks of a man who has the lights on but no one home.

Aware that the awkwardness of the moment is getting away from them, steering them to that unpleasant day six months ago, Max steps forward, right towards Bond. When Bond doesn't step back, Max leans forwards, and wraps both his arms around Bond's broad frame.

For a horrible second, Bond stays frozen.

But then his arms come up, slot Max securely in place, give a small squeeze. Max hears him breathe in, feels him relax and tighten his hold. Bond's stubble rubs against Max's ear. He can smell Bond's shampoo, feel firm hands on his shoulder blades.

They stay there, heads on one another's shoulders, swaying ever so slightly, for a few minutes, until the sound of Theo crying sets them on their way.

 

Later on, in the bedroom, he peers into Theodore’s cot and soothes himself with signs of life from his little body. It’s easier now, to stop looking - to turn away and get undressed for the shower without fear that his fragile chest might stop rising and falling so smoothly, stutter to a halt while he’s being neglected.

Not _easy_ , not yet. But easier.

The fear is never so bad when they’re apart - when he was on a separate ward, or when he slips away to stack the dishwasher. When the distance is definite, decided on, the fear abates. It’s picking a moment to look away that terrifies him - the split second of deciding that something else comes first.

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

‘Hello,’ he says, puzzled, through a mouthful of cereal. ‘Did you not get my text? Theodore’s at my parents’, I’m afraid.’

It’s a funny thing, texting James Bond: since he pitches up on the doorstep so often now, Max sends him updates on Theodore’s schedule - to avoid precisely this scenario, but Bond never sends responses. Their entire message log reads like a series of diary reminders.

‘You’ve been exercising,’ Bond states, entirely beside the point.

He’s looking at Max with curious interest, as though he’s observed lycra from afar but never actually encountered it in person. Probably he thinks running is for sissies, unless being used for the purposes of evading capture, or for gearing up to tackle a villain.

‘Your powers of observation never cease to amaze me, 007.’

It would make him feel a little uncomfortable - standing there in his leggings and zip-up top while Bond is crisp as a garden party, still in office wear - but he’s too pepped up on endorphins to care: sweaty, lightheaded, entirely exhilarated. Jig rubs at Max’s shins and coos invitingly.

‘Would you like to come in?’

Bond almost certainly did see the text, so there’s some other reason for his visit. As it dawns on him, he feels a spike of panic that this is the fated day when Bond decides to quit his foray into parenting - he’s moving to Comoros with the latest glamorous woman, perhaps.

‘Wouldn’t want to intrude,’ says Bond, stepping through the doorway.

Max sighs.

‘Make yourself at home; I’m going to shower.’

If double-ohs couldn’t hide nerves when they wanted to then they’d be dead on their first job, so Bond’s nonchalance isn’t proof of much. But he’s familiar enough with Bond by now to bet that if he were planning to deliver bad news, he’d have met Max in a carpark and come dressed with a grimace, rather than saunter into Max’s flat, coat in hand.

Maybe Bond came round just to see Max without Theo. The thought makes him thrum with a shifting nervousness.

He crams the last of the cheerios into his mouth and heads for the bathroom. 

 

When he gets out the shower, damp-haired and pink-faced, he finds Bond in the kitchen, a glass of wine in each hand. Bond holds one out for him.

The empty cereal bowl is gone. 

‘Living room?’ suggests Max.

No scotch. Definitely not bad news.

‘Sorry,’ he mutters, starting to clear miscellaneous baby paraphernalia from the coffee table as they go to sit down. ‘I was going to try and clean this weekend, while I’ve got the chance.’

Without Theodore here, the abandoned toys and discarded tissues seem more noticeable, less forgivable.

‘Leave it,’ Bond says, sprawling in a corner of the sofa, stroking Jig when she hops up onto the arm. ‘You should get someone in to do it; I’ll see if one of the girls who do my place is around. They’ve all been cleared.’

‘Unless MI6 have cleared a cleaning agency that’s run on underage slave labour, I would suggest that the people who clean your flat are _women_ , not girls,’ Max huffs, sitting down beside him.

He takes a glug of wine and makes a happy, surprised sound; much nicer than anything he’s bought recently. He raises a questioning eyebrow at Bond.

‘Where did you get this? Didn’t see you bring a bottle with you.’

‘Had it in the car,’ says Bond, pleased and sheepish.

Max raises his eyebrows further.

Bond had left the wine down a flight of stairs and outside the building so that - what? So that Max wouldn’t see it and feel obliged to let him in?

‘Well, it’s lovely,’ he says uncertainly. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Bond is a little stubbly today – Max rather likes it; it brings out the odd angles of his face, makes him look gruffer and comfortably worn. Not soft – never that – but slightly more man-made than normal. 

‘Thought it might be nice to have a drink together,’ says Bond, shrugging.

He wonders if he ought to have got dressed properly, for ‘nice’. But then, his pyjama bottoms are freshly laundered and he’s substituted the matching chequered top for a rather nice cable-knit jumper. If Bond’s superspy skills are up to much then he’ll notice the difference.

And it _is_ nice: nice to talk to another adult without repositioning a squirming infant every three minutes, nice to swear and not panic about babies’ language absorption abilities, nice to have a drink - several, in fact - without the worry of not being ready for a mishap.

They work their way steadily through the bottle and talk of Theo’s most recent doctor’s appointment and Hornblower novels and skiing. Max sits cross legged and the tip of his knee bumps against Bond’s thigh when he gesticulates. He only realises how much time has passed when he excuses himself to the kitchen to feed the cats and express some milk (dispiritingly thrown straight into the bin on account of the wine), and catches sight of the oven clock.

‘I can get out of your hair,’ Bond offers, when Max returns. ‘If you wanted to have the place to yourself.’

‘No no,’ Max rushes out, sitting back beside him. ‘Glad of the company - bit weird being in alone.’

He’s grateful for the peace, for the opportunity of unbroken sleep. But the empty flat is a disquieting - even going out for a run had been a mammoth force of will. No matter that he knew, logically, that Theo was in a different county - he’d gone back into the bedroom twice just to look at Theo’s empty cot to convince himself that he wasn’t accidentally abandoning him in there.

He ducks his head, aware of how tragic he sounds.

‘Your parents must be thrilled to have him,’ Bond offers kindly - seeming to understand.

‘Oh, over the moon,’ Max agrees.

He thinks of the look of embarrassed pride on mother’s face when she’d shown him the cot they’d bought for the spare bedroom. Dad had asked, earnestly, if Max was sure they’d bought the right one - if it was up to all these modern child-safety standards, because if not they could easily take it back - as if thoughtlessness on their part might be the reason that Max hadn’t brought Theo to stay before.

He’d never felt like such a bastard.

They’ve poured out the last of the bottle, and he’s exhausted. He’d planned a whole evening of falling asleep in front of the telly, and while sitting drinking wine hasn’t exactly been strenuous, it has meant staying awake when he normally would have been dozing in between feeds and attempts to stack the dishwasher.

‘Come on,’ Bond insists, shifting as if to get up. ‘I’ll let you get some rest.’

Max looks down at the dregs in his glass, drains them, fiddles with the stem.

‘Stay,’ he says, and it should feel like a bad idea. ‘If you’d like to. You could stay.’

Bond stills. For a moment he says nothing - just looks at Max, soft and appraising.

‘And what would you like?’ asks Bond.

He wishes Bond would take the initiative, but knows he won’t; after last time - after Kettlebank - it’s not initiative Bond lacks but encouragement.

Max puts the wine glass on the table, places his hand on Bond’s thigh.

He sounds like a child owning up to a crime - he doesn’t want to have to say it, but saying it is the only way to get rid of the churning that’s been at play in his stomach since Bond produced the picpoul. He looks up from where his fingers grip Bond’s leg. Bond’s eyes are bright - as still as marble.

‘Come to bed with me.’

 

In the warm yellow lamplight, Bond's great, scarred chest comes as a surprise when it's peeled slowly out of starched, white cotton. The familiar wounds rendered fresh and unusual by their domestic surroundings, though through in training rooms and through camera feeds they had seemed routine as birthmarks.

There’s a graze that Max doesn’t recognise, gouged directly under Bond’s ribs on the left side - and Max tries to pair it with one of Bond’s absences over the past six months, wondering when there was a limp he missed, or a week’s painful recuperation that he mistook for Bond still being away on the job. Bond reaches for him - brushes the hair back from Max’s forehead, breaking his transfixion. Max ducks back to ridding Bond of his trousers.

When Bond is stripped down to only his underwear, he reaches for the hem of Max’s jumper.

‘May I?’

They’re standing toe to toe. Bond’s gaze is heavy, his hands light. Max finds he has no reason ready to refuse.

Sex has never made him self-conscious - not even when an inexperienced teen, not even paired with the preposterous physiques of Bond’s sort - and he’s hardly going to let it now. But as Bond strips away his clothing, he’s aware of that the stretch marks that marble his abdomen are on show for the first time since their arrival.

Bond stops where he is; runs two broad hands over Max’s bare shoulders, and _looks_. He’s stock-still, eyes flickering down Max’s torso and thighs, lingering on his prick before making their slow, dragging return home. And this - this Max is no stranger to. Becoming a body to be enjoyed, and in return finding joy in the body that enjoys him. Max feels the sinew in his own arms, the wide tenderness in his nipples, the invitation of his throat. He sees the shadow of Bond’s smile, the flexing strength in his every inch.

Max reaches a hand out and up to cup Bond’s neck. He smiles back.

They tumble down onto the mattress, kissing like teenagers; wet and warm and excellent fun. Their teeth clack together as they land and Max laughs into Bond’s mouth, wrapping his arms around Bond’s torso and pulling them together, tight as rolled socks in a drawer. Bond resists a little, pulling himself onto his forearms and take his own weight - Max clings tighter, tries to reverse the effect - and now it’s Bond who’s laughing. Max can feel him smiling even with his eyes closed.

As they struggle, mouths hardly parting, Bond strokes a hand down over Max’s chest, circling near one of his nipples.

‘Bond,’ he warns, tensing.

Despite the pleasant feeling, he’s unsure about having the area brought into play.

‘James,’ corrects Bond, cutting through Max’s scrabble for a nonchalant brush-off.

He slides his hand safely away, down Max’s flank.

‘What?’ Max croaks.

Though he bloody well knows what.

He’d seem unreasonable to argue, but he’s discomfited by the request; he’d always thought that, like all public schoolboys, Bond liked the surname usage.

‘James,’ repeats Bond. ‘Please.’

And before Max can think further, Bond continues running his lips on Max’s collarbone and down the bony central strip of his chest chest, exhaling exactly the right amount to keep Max’s hair standing on end, hand sliding ever closer to Max’s crotch. His fingers trace over the pink scar bordering the top of Max’s pubic triangle - touch light as a paper aeroplane.

Max lies very still under the ministrations and Bond pauses, moves his hand away and palms instead at Max’s cock.

‘Fuck,’ hisses Max, eyes snapping shut.

He rolls his hips, thrusting into Bond’s hand, spreading his legs so that Bond’s weight presses more surely on his pelvis. His whole body pulses.

Bond tightens his grip, encircling Max’s cock, hand remaining infuriatingly static. Max cracks his eyes open to glare, and finds Bond looking down at him with awe.

‘Will you come like this?’

He gives a small stroke, keeping his hold vice-like and smirking when Max squirms under him, letting out a frustrated grunt. He hooks a leg around Bond’s, digging his heel in.

‘Probably,’ Max admits, breathless.

Bond releases him and moves to cup his balls again, wrenching a desperate whine from Max’s throat. Bond shushes him, cradling his bollocks gently, then takes Max’s prick firmly back in hand, pumping him lazily.

‘Christ, you’re close already,’ Bond marvels.

It’s only an observation, but the taunt in it sends a hot throb of embarrassment through Max.

‘It’s been a while,’ Max bites out. ‘In case you hadn’t realised.’

Bond doesn’t respond, just kisses him soundly, free hand running over the side of Max’s neck and through his hair. The other sliding into rhythm, working him up. Bond runs his thumb over the head and Max almost bites through Bond’s lip.

Bond pulls away suddenly, and Max wants to scream.

‘Turn over,’ Bond says, murmuring it into Max’s ear.

The order thrills him, but Max hesitates. Tonight’s not really the night to start-

‘Not that,’ murmurs Bond, smiling, moving to mouth under his jaw, soothing him and riling him up in equal measure. ‘I just want to give you a kiss.’

 

‘Shitting christ.’

Max whimpers into the duvet as Bond finally eases a finger in, and he can _feel_ Bond chuckle against his areshole. The vibrations might make him explode. Bond has been at the coalface for what must be hours by now, and Max is turning inside out. The broad, wet slide of it is unbearable, and Max tries to spread his legs, roll his hips - anything to ease the crush of pleasure. But Bond’s elbows and hands have pinned him in place, helplessly overcome. Max fists his hands in the sheets.

Bond’s tongue trails down along his perineum nudging forcefully, and sending waves of sensation through Max's entire pelvic floor. Bond slides further down and teases the back of his balls until Max hisses. Bond returns to lap at his rim, sliding his finger in and out, pressing at the tight clutch of muscles - wheedling them into sweet submission.

‘Fuck, I’m going to-’ Max pants, desperately.

Bond hums encouragingly, presses his finger firmly against Max’s prostate.

Max’s toes flex, his calves go taught. He comes like a six car pileup, and lets out a soft cry into the bedsheets.

 

Afterwards, Bond eases him back over - kisses along his hairline, and down to his mouth, still open and panting like an asthmatic.

‘Mm, you’re lovely,’ rumbles Bond, pinning him back to the mattress.

Max resists, still trying to get his breath back but too aware that he hasn’t contributed much to the proceedings so far to be able to lie still.

‘Let me up would you?’

Bond freezes, face clouding.

‘Do you want me to stop?’

‘No!’ says Max. ‘Just let me-’

He has them twisted over and has scrambled halfway down Bond’s torso before the penny drops.

‘God,’ Bond sighs, when Max tugs his underwear down.

It’s a beautiful cock - impressive enough that Max is surprised not to remember it; thick, a little narrowed at the head, emerging from a triangle of tight, dark blond curls. Max wraps his hand around the base and thrills at the girth, bemused at himself for leaving Bond’s modesty intact so long. Bond’s hips shift - his hands run along Max’s neck and shoulders.

Max licks him roughly with the flat of his tongue and enjoy’s the sharp intake of breath that answers. He works up more saliva before attempting to take it all in - pushing down until it bumps the back of his throat and he has to concentrate on not gagging. Bond’s hands move into Max’s hair, staying infuriatingly loose.

It’s delightful, doing this after so long. Everything is the same (the salt-sweat smell, the ache in his jaw) and brand new (the quiet _ah_ sounds coming from above him). He revels in it, losing himself in the tunnel vision that takes over when muscle memory is put to use.

He feels Bond’s spine curl; Bond curses and a hand slips down to grip the back of Max’s neck, threatening to hold him in place. Max pushes back against it, pulls away so the tip of Bond’s cock is just bumping his lower lip, lets his mouth hang open and keeps working the shaft with his hand.

It always feels a little risky, doing this - the nervousness that they’re going to fall away from the edge when you take your mouth away, and then you’re left looking like a bit of a twat, having to duck back to finish the job-

Bond grunts like he’s been punched, and Max feels the first victorious stripes of warm release on his tongue and cheek.

He opens his eyes when it’s all over; Bond is propped up on an elbow, staring down at him - and in another dimension the look on his face would be utter fury. Max licks a rivulet of spunk off his upper lip and basks in the pleased consternation.

Bond collapses back onto the bed.

‘Get up here,’ he groans.

Max plants a final, sloppy kiss on Bond’s softening, twitching cock, and uses the bedding to wipe at his face before he obliges - flopping down onto Bond’s chest. Bond runs one hand through Max’s hair again, making his scalp tingle. The other slips down to tickle at the crease of his thigh, trailing through at a splotch of dried come. Max groans and Bond moves over to pet his limp penis.

Max twitches and chokes out half a curse.

‘God,’ he laughs, batting Bond’s head away. ‘Give me a minute before you start that, again.’

‘Only a minute?’ Bond smirks at him. ‘You really are a child.’

Max swats at his arm.

‘Which would make you, what? An old perv?’

‘Oh, don’t remind me,’ rumbles Bond, feigning embarrassment. ‘Old enough to be your father.’

Max laughs, kisses Bond’s scarred shoulder.

‘That’s what I said, you know - to Eve. When I found out it had been you in the bathroom.’

He notes the tension that ripples through Bond’s body - knows the cool look that would be engulfing his face, if Max looked to find it.

‘You don’t like it when I mention that,’ Max muses, pressing his lips to a sturdy pectoral.

‘Wasn’t exactly my finest moment,’ says Bond, quietly.

‘Nor mine, I imagine,’ sighs Max. ‘Surprised I even managed to get it up, the amount I’d had to drink.’

‘That’s not what I mean.’

‘Oh, none of that,’ says Max, waving away Bond’s contrition. ‘We’ve been through it: just because you worked out that our little tryst didn’t turn me into the drooling James Bond cheerleader that you thought, it doesn’t mean I was some unwilling victim.’

At least, Max hopes he’s worked that out. Surely even Bond’s ego couldn’t continue to support the logic that Max was so desperate for round two that he flew to the Alps to engineer it - not when Max had had literally no idea that there had even been a round one at that stage.

‘The drooling-?’ Bond cuts himself off, obviously off-put. ‘And when exactly did I think that?’

‘Well, come on.’ Max props himself up on an elbow and studies Bond’s perplexed face, suddenly unsure. ‘After all of that Smartblood and Austria business. And the car. You must have, you know.’ He gestures vaguely.

‘Assumed you were in love with me and deliberately run off in the opposite direction?’ He looks almost sad. ‘Is that really what you think?’

Max shrugs, feeling rather silly.

‘It was,’ he admits.

He drops his head onto Bond’s shoulder, lets out a sigh.

‘But perhaps you’re not quite the consummate arsehole that I had taken you for.’

Under his cheek, Bond relaxes a fraction.

‘Praise indeed,’ he grumbles.

‘It’s as much as you deserve,’ says Max, around a yawn.

 

Max is woken in waves: a phone buzzing, the mattress moving under him, the sound of speaking - directed somewhere other than him. Cracking his eyes open, Max sees the darkness and senses that sunrise is a long way off yet.

Sitting at the end of the bed, James is speaking on the phone in a low voice. It’s a familiar tone of his, usually reserved for work - one could take it for urgency or for bored annoyance.

‘Yes. What time? Fine.’

There’s a pause where James is asked a question, but before answering he looks over to Max uncertainly, squeezes his ankle through the duvet.

‘No, send it to the Quartermaster’s flat.’

James hangs up.

‘The office?’ asks Max, voice groggy.

‘Yes. Car will be here in twenty minutes.’

‘Alright,’ says Max.

Even in his sleep-addled state, James’ discomfort at the implication of being at Max’s flat in the small hours radiates from him. It makes Max’s stomach twist. He focuses on James’ hand, still resting on his leg.

‘M knows, you know - about Theo. You can tell them that’s why you were here.’

James pauses, smoothes the covers.

‘You should go back to sleep.’

 

Max dozes as James gets dressed - he’d offer to let the man turn the light on, but he’s sure that James Bond has enough experience of finding his socks in unfamiliar bedrooms that he could do it blindfolded and with vertigo.

He drifts in and out - both sleeping and not - until James sits by him on the mattress, and a bristly cheek presses against his own.

‘I’m going.’

Max forces himself to sit up against the headboard, reaches for his glasses, for all the good they do him in the blackness.

He nods, grips James’ arm, rubs a thumb over his bicep. He fights the urge to dig his nail in.

For a moment James does nothing, then leans down - frames his face and kisses him deeply, as if drinking two-handed from a cup.

Max thinks of the scarred skin as James took off his shirt last night, and wonders if he ought to tell him to be safe, to be quick - to _come back in one piece_. But even thinking the words is useless enough to be insulting. It strikes him that in a minute, James will be out in the world again, and Max will simply be alone in the flat, the same as twenty hours previously. For the first time since going on leave, he’s hit by a wrenching urge to get back to the office and do what he’s best at. He pushes it away.

‘Good luck out there in the field, 007.’

He manages a smile. Through the darkness, it's impossible to see if Bond returns it.

James presses a parting kiss to his forehead, and walks out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo it may have taken slightly longer than anticipated to get this one ready. sorry about that.
> 
> but in my defence, everyone gets their dicks out, and i think that ought to count for something.


	12. Chapter 12

 

Theo’s hat has little ears on it; neat and rounded, like a cartoon bear. It’s sweet and weather-appropriate, and deciding to put it on Theo’s head this morning had thrown Max into a minor panic that he was becoming a hideous parasitic father that dresses his child up in borderline-abusive fancy dress costumes out of desperation for compliments from strangers.

But Dad keeps telling him that _you’ve got to enjoy them when they’re small_ and - after all - it was cold this morning, and he needed something to keep Theo’s head warm while they waited for the bus.

It does look a bit silly though - a bit girly, maybe? But then; what's "girly", really? Perhaps he shouldn’t be so prescriptive about the gender of Theo’s clothes. He _has_ been dressing him in more blue recently not deliberately, but then-

Lieutenant Colonel Gareth Mallory, head of the Secret Intelligence Service and former IRA hostage, does not share his anxiety.

‘Oh, look at _you_ ,’ M coos. ‘Did Daddy dress you as a bearcub? Did he? Did he dress you up as a big brave bear?’

He tickles Theo on the stomach and Theo remains silent, sitting cautiously in the strange man’s hold, deciding whether he feels threatened enough to bawl.

Max tries to square this embarrassing puddle of sap with the man who threw Denbigh off a balcony and treated himself to a new Mont Blanc fountain pen afterwards.

‘Why has he spent so long hiding you away from us?’ M encourages, mirroring Theo’s wide-eyed stare. ‘We don’t bite!’

 _No, we don’t_ , thinks Max. _But there was that awkward spell where we helped the Americans to waterboard people_.

Mallory bounces Theo gently, still tickling, and Theo lets out a happy gurgle of saliva. He looks delighted when Theo grasps onto his silk tie and is stuffs it into his mouth for a considering chew.

‘He’s beautiful,’ smiles M.

‘Thank you, sir,’ says Max, rather stiffly.

Suffice to say that this is not the reaction he’d anticipated. He thought he’d bring Theo in for the required tour around his department, say a much-belated thank-you for the gifts and flowers, let some of the younger (more hormonal) staffers have a goggle, then duck out for lunch with Eve and Bill.

Being summoned up to M’s office so that he can watch his boss transform into the baby whisperer has been quite the surprise.

M notices his bemusement and smiles apologetically at him.

‘You forget what a joy they are at this age,’ he says, permitting himself one final tickle before extracting his tie from Theo’s mouth and passing him carefully back to Max.

‘Not such a joy at half four this morning,’ Max gripes, settling Theo on his hip.

‘No, I daresay not. I hope Bond’s been taking his share of the night shifts?’

He hasn’t tried to explain away James’ presence in his flat three weeks ago - judging that M would draw his own conclusions regardless, and that letting the incident pass without getting defensive was the least incriminating option.

Inventing cover stories isn’t his particular area of expertise, but he has enough experience with spies to know that silence is usually the better part of valour. And he has enough experience of M to guess that the man would much rather not be prevailed upon to know anything about his Quartermaster’s sex life.

Besides, whether there will ever be a repeat of three weeks ago remains to be seen. He can hold off declaring any further entanglement to Mallory at least until that’s been established.

‘On occasion,’ he answers, quite honestly.

‘Well, it’s doing him good,’ says M. ‘Your team tell me he's been positively bearable on his recent missions.’

‘Bond - bearable on comms?’ says Max, unable to hide his surprise. ‘Is he unwell?’

M gives him a thoughtful look.

‘He wouldn't be the first man to find that a family set him on an even keel.’

‘Not the attitude Mansfield had,’ Max says, then reddens; horrified to hear himself let that slip out.

Being so new to the game when the Silva incident happened, he’d never been one to begrudge Mallory his appointment. Unlike so many of the other staffers, he’d barely known the old M - so he had no reason to resent the new one. The weight of Mansfield’s death presses on him in quieter moments - that much he deserves - but Max doesn’t need M thinking that he regrets how the dust has since settled.

But it’s jarring, hearing that word used. James has become a semi-regular presence in their lives - if he becomes a permanent one, Max can bring himself round to the idea that Theodore will have another father. But a _family_?

But then, it’s not the f-word that’s the problem: it’s the a-word. _A_ family. Just one. As if they all sit together - the three of them, tessellating. Max is not convinced.

M raises an eyebrow and smoothes a hand over his soggy tie.

‘My predecessor did favour orphans at the recruitment stage,’ M agrees. He manages - with just a tilt of the head - to convey both respect and complete dismissal of her preference. ‘But I doubt even she saw a value in keeping them that way.’

 

***

 

Max is kneeling over Theodore, his index fingers grasped in clammy little hands, while Theo’s socked feet kick out on the mattress. Back still pressed flat to the bed, Theo looks delighted by the idea of this afternoon’s activity but, as yet, shows little interest in actually participating.

‘Come on,’ Max encourages. He over-crumples his brow and makes a stern face. ‘We’re going to get this, aren’t we? We’re going to absolutely smash this sitting-up business.’

Theo flashes a gummy smile, and jerks Max’s hands.

Perhaps he hasn’t twigged that his father is trying to bump him along the physical development track a little faster. Or maybe he has, but he’d rather play dumb and get to spend more time taking part in this excellent core muscle-strengthening game.

Either option suggests a promising degree of intelligence.

When he’s sure Theo’s grip is steady again, Max pulls his hands back while Theo hangs onto him, lifting Theo’s back off the bed and into an upright position.

Theo shrieks, looks mildly terrified, and flails until Max lowers him back down again.

‘Right, well,’ sighs Max. ‘Not an unqualified success.’

Between his shoulder blades is aching from the awkward hovering position he’s adopted, and they are absolutely no further toward a developmental milestone than they were before lunch. But Theo has a bright, pleased look about him, and Max doesn’t know where the past hour and a half has gone. Max grins at him, and tickles his sides until Theo hiccoughs out a laugh.

As he leans down to plant a kiss on Theo’s forehead, an angry buzzing bursts through the quiet of the bedroom - rattling the drawer of the bedside table.

It takes him a moment - longer than it should - but Max’s heart sinks to his stomach as he reaches for the drawer.

He soothes a startled Theodore with his free hand.

A year ago, it would have meant a late night at the office. A year ago it might have meant a security breach or an international crisis; bad things happening to other people, elsewhere.

The screen flashes up Tanner’s name.

His personal phone lies silent at the foot of the bed.

 

***

 

No one likes hospitals. Those who claim that they _can’t stand them - just can’t bear the smell_ \- as if that’s a special affliction that they alone must suffer - have always irritated him. Who on earth _enjoys_ the smell of antiseptic or the sad, musty scent of geriatric wards? You could work in a hospital all of your adult life and love your job with a luminous passion, and still you could never claim to like the peeling paint or the masses of cheap plastic and marked linoleum floors, and the unnavigable mess of wards and departments and units. Max didn’t like them before he had Theo, he didn’t like them when Theo was in one and Max wasn’t, and he doesn’t like them any more now that he’s back in one, halfway down another windowless corridor.

In the room - mercifully private - James is asleep; the sedative still wearing off. Though asleep seems too gentle a word for such a lifeless lump.

The worst of his injuries are hiding under the sheets and hospital gown - this much Max had taken in from Bill’s briefing - but across the exposed skin there are relatively few inches that have escaped unscathed. On James’ grey-purple face, scratches are scattered - now neatly cleaned of the windscreen glass that must have been embedded. His left eye is so puffy that Max is sure he won’t be able to open it even when he wakes.

He’s been lucky - Max knows this too. He’s had far worse.

‘I didn’t realise what he did was so...’ Adrian trails off, unable to look away from James’ swollen hands, splitting at the knuckles.

Max nods stiffly. What they do - what James does - has never seemed truly routine. How could it, with the cars and the hours and the dying and the danger? But Adrian’s queasy response is enough to make Max see that - in recent times - the absurd barbarity of it all had ceased to shock him as it once did.

What to say? A platitude inches towards the front of his mouth before he diverts it - _it’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it_. Ade’s not stupid; he must have realised that however bad James’ hands are, the other man’s skull will be worse.

He settles on:

‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’

‘But you don’t-?’ A slow horror gathers on Ade’s face. ‘It’s not like this for you?’

‘God, no,’ Max leaps to assure him. Tries not to laugh at the notion. ‘No - I’d be as much use in the field as you are in Pictionary.’

The joke falls flat.

‘Right.’

His jerky nod awakens Max to the cruelty of bringing Ade into this - of showing him a mess that he cannot and should not fix, and asking for a solution nonetheless. He should implement some kind of damage control; explain himself and stop it all from spreading. Ade looks back at James’ unconscious form, and Max hears himself blurting out:

‘You can’t tell Mum and Dad. Nor Lydia. I know you wouldn’t, but. I mean, it’s just that - you probably shouldn’t even be here, but I,’ he pauses, gulping down the hysterical laugh that’s battering its way up his throat. ‘I just didn’t want to come alone.’

‘No, I know. Hey.’ Adrian' shoulders sag as he folds Max into an embrace. ‘It’s ok - he’s going to be ok. You heard what the doctor said.’

Max pushes his rapidly damp nose into Ade’s t-shirt. It could have been anyone else in the world - any other man: butcher, baker, or accountant. He could have started this mess with any of them instead.

‘No, I know,’ he whispers into Ade’s chest. ‘I know that.’

Ade rubs circles between Max’s shoulder blades, rocks them ever so slightly. Max breathes in and out; sharp, trembling inhales, wretched and shallow and stubbornly slow to even out. Max stays there for a while, clinging on even after he's back in control - a shade too embarrassed to emerge.

‘Should I be worried?’

Max nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of James’ scratched voice.

‘Shit. James, you’re awake.’

On the bed, James is much as still as before, but his good eye flickers over to Adrian, arm still tight around Max’s shoulders.

Max lets out a wet snort, his stomaching unclenching.

‘Clearly your sight’s been damaged as well as your ribcage. This is my brother, Adrian.’

‘Pleasure,’ Bond grits out.

Even his jerky nod of acknowledgement looks painful.

‘I’d say likewise. But there’s not much about this that seems pleasurable.’ Ade gestures over Bond’s incapacitated form.

Bond grunts his agreement, and shifts as if to sit. He stops quickly, grimacing. Max extricates himself from Ade and steps forward as if to help - but stops short, unsure of what to do.

‘Here, let me-’ Max investigates the bed, hoping to winch it up so Bond doesn't have to move himself. ‘Give me a hand Ade.’

‘No, leave it,’ says James.

He’s irritable at being fussed over, and Max is suddenly, selfishly embarrassed that this will be the first impression that James makes on Adrian.

He looks over to Ade apologetically but, before he can say anything, Ade squeezes his shoulder.

‘Look - I'll leave you to it. Get a coffee or something. You want anything?’

Wisely, he doesn’t extend the offer to Bond.

Max shakes his head, and hopes his gratitude shows.

‘I’ve got my mobile, if you need me,’ says Ade, and leaves them.

 

‘Is Theodore with you?’

Max shakes his head. He can see the fresh scabbing on James’ cuts - flaky little lines of rust, mingling with black thread and beige skin.

‘Molly’s looking after him. Adrian’s wife.’

However mad it would have been to bring Theo with him to the trauma unit, he’d been loathe to leave him. He’s wretchedly aware that if he had let his family look after his son on more casual evenings over the past few months, he would have had less anxiety about letting them look after Theo when he had no choice in the matter.

‘Good,’ says James.

He wonders if James is appalled at the thought of his son seeing him like this, or if he’s worried at exposing Theo to the potential immune system calamity that is a hospital.

Possibly Max should have been thinking about these things too. But when he made the decision to abandon a crying Theo in Ade and Molly’s living room, Max had been rather less worried about either issue, and more horrified at the idea of trying to uphold a game of peek-a-boo with an infant, while also facing the sight of James with his leg blown off or worse.

Max wonders if he ought to say _he misses you_ or something equally mundane. (And largely untrue. Theodore's sense of object permanence is rough and ready at best: so long as Bond is out of eyeline, he's ceased to exist as far as Theo's concerned.)

James says nothing else, just regards Max with Max with his one good eye, half-lidded. His breathing is too shallow; he’s trying to prevent his damaged ribs from expanding too much.

‘I sense it didn’t all quite go according to plan,’ offers Max.

‘I finished the job.’

‘Never a doubt in my mind,’ says Max, drily.

But there isn’t - never is, with Bond.

‘Was that a compliment, Quartermaster?’ asks James, mouth twitching. ‘Trying to soften the blow before you tell me what the damage is?’  
  
He wants to hear how soon he’ll be back in the field, but Max prickles at being the one that has to say it. For a few hours he’d like to enjoy the fact that James is back more or less in one piece - and for James to enjoy it too. He doesn't fancy managing James’ mood when he finds out how long his mandatory recovery time is.

James raises an eyebrow.

If only Bill had given him a little less information when he’d met them in reception - he would have had some plausible deniability. Max sighs. Best not to beat around the bush.

‘M’s looked at your medical notes. He’s standing you down from active duty for at least eight weeks.’

James is silent for a moment. Then:

‘Eight weeks,’ he muses. ‘We could go away again.’

Max looks around the room, hopeful that there might be someone else - someone not currently suffering from whatever stroke or hallucination that has afflicted his own mind - who can verify what James is saying.

Perhaps it’s the morphine.

‘Is that-’ Max stops, thinks for a moment before pressing tentatively on. ‘Is that a joke?’

James’ mouth tightens.  
  
‘Well we don’t have to,’ he says, tetchily. ‘It might have been nice.’  
  
‘I’m sure it would be,’ says Max warily. ‘It’s just. You know. A bit out of character.’  
  
‘By all means, continue to tell me what you think my character is,’ grunts James.  
  
‘I’m not trying to-’ starts Max, indignantly.

But James’ face has reverted to the studied blankness that it assumes when a storm is brewing.  
  
‘We can talk about it when you’ve been discharged,’ says Max, trying to iron the irritation out of his voice.

He almost succeeds, but then a voice that sounds suspiciously like his own bites out:

‘But why the bloody hell you’re even thinking about travelling right now I cannot possibly imagine. You’ve been stabbed twice, thrown out a car, suffered a minor head injury, dislocated your shoulder again, and broken two of your fingers. Oh, and your ribs are buggered.’

 _Go away again_ his arse. Max will _not_ get his hopes up over a promise that James made when he was doped up on pain relief and giddy at having yet again beaten the odds and avoided death.

‘You’re staying here for at least three nights. After that you’ll come back to mine, and you won’t leave the bloody house until M, myself, and at least two separate medical professionals have signed off on it.’

When he chances a look back at James, he finds him looking mildly terrified and entirely amused.

‘Well,’ James croaks, mildly. ‘I suppose that’s settled.’

 

***

 

‘His interior designer’s done a wonderful job of “serial killer chic”, I must say.’

‘You’ve not been before?’

Eve looks round at him, surprised.

‘Wasn’t much need to,’ he shrugs.

Eve nods as is she understands, but a frown ghosts her face as she walks out of the main room. Her shoes tap along the hardwood floors to what he assumes is a bedroom.

‘I’ll get his clothes,’ she calls back to him. ‘You get the rest.’

Max sets the carseat gently down on the counter and looks around the spartan living room cum kitchen - taunting him with its unfamiliarity. He feels stupid for coming and, if possible, even more useless here than he did pissing about at home, waiting for visiting hours to come round. What should he even pick up - one of the soulless prints stacked next to the wall? A half-empty bottle of scotch? Max curses himself for not being able to pick out a more specialist item of comfort, rather than something that any staffer in the service could have collected after scanning James’ non-classified files.

Considering the small number of personal effects on display, the number of books scattered around the room is comparatively reassuring. He wanders over to peer at the volumes on the coffee table, half-hoping that one of them might have a bookmark in it, or some other sign of human engagement. No such mark is apparent - but there’s a Shackleton biography that looks interesting enough, and a P.G. Wodehouse novel, which strikes Max as incongruously sweet. He gathers them up, guessing one or the other will hit the spot.

There’s not much else of note on the table; just a dusty ornament that Max inexpertly assesses to be West-African, and a small bowl of the kind that sits in every house in the country; containing business cards, loose change, and an assortment of screws and drawing pins. Max digs through it idly, admiring a scalloped-edged silver coin, and picking out the cards to flick through.

He regrets it almost instantly.

In among the nice restaurants, MI6-cleared cleaning agency, and dry-cleaners, two appear to advertise high-end escort agencies. A few more belong to individual improbably-named women.

Max’s windpipe restricts.

 _Of course, of course_ his brain supplies. _Of course he does_.

He flips through the cards again. A few feet behind him, Theodore sleeps on happily.

‘Ready to go?’ Eve’s voice rings out down the hallway.

Cursing himself for not remembering the order the cards were in so that he can replace them without detection, Max drops them back in the bowl.

‘Yes, let’s,’ he trills, forcing himself to turn away from the table as her footsteps approach.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a firm believer that you shouldn't wrestle writer's block; just let it wash over you, and do as it will.
> 
> in this case, (as well as throwing a bit of a spanner in the works for a while) it made me realise that it will take a little longer than planned to get Q and Bond to their final destination, so there will be at least one more chapter after this.
> 
> apologies for the wait you guys, but i know for a fact that you'll all have been reading far more amazing things in the meantime, so you won't have even noticed that Max was gone for a while.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> umm... yeah, so it's been a while. 
> 
> definitely too long for me to make a valid excuse.
> 
> *prays for forgiveness*

 

He’s springing along the pavement, pushing red brick terraces and pillar boxes behind him, cold wind hitting his cheeks and melting away on stinging skin. The rare gift of six hours’ sleep has given him the strength to carry on to the park, do another couple of kilometres - the unusual energy is humming quietly in his thighs and under his ribs even while his throat aches under the onslaught of icy air. To his right, the sky is only just purpling, warming sluggishly under the weight of the fog. But despite the early hour and the rareness of the opportunity - despite the flat having felt about as welcoming as a closed door since Bond got out of hospital - staying out much longer is not an indulgence he can allow. He must get back - take Theo back off Bond’s hands. Assuage his guilt for resisting so feebly when Bond offered to take on last night’s crying fit.

He has already embarrassed himself so spectacularly: coerced Bond into recuperating under his watch, given off the impression that he wanted Bond to be something palatable and domestic - something so at odds with his basic nature. If he asks any more of the man, the shame might kill him.

James cares for Theo - of this Max is sure. But it's not the same. Max doesn’t want to be given odd days off to pause the responsibility, and forget so entirely. He doesn’t want the option of shrugging off the restrictive, terrifying weight of love that presses on this chest whenever Theodore blinks or hurts or smiles - or lies sleeping, out of sight.

Even after enduring seizures so severe he pissed himself; after being knocked out and having his stomach cut open in a room full of strangers; after being sent home to a flat with an unused cot in a room that still smelled of fresh paint while their son was kept in a warm plastic box, miles and miles and lifetimes away. After all that – in the midst of it, even – all Max had wanted to do was to hold a happy Theodore in his arm and use the ridiculous cooing voice that he thought he’d never stoop to: “Hi, hi, hi. Hello. Look at you!”

It had been so tempting to believe that James wanted it all too. To beat away the threat of good sense with Bill’s words from the spring: _he knows how to be when it’s required_. For a short while - since their unorthodox getaway? Before then, even? - he had allowed himself to tread too close to a comfortable daydream that Bond wanted to be an equal partner in their imperfect attempt at family life.

It had been nothing but foolishness, nurturing an attachment to someone who would always dip in and out while Max could only stay steady as a rock.

The end of the run speeds towards him. Max strides out faster, though his legs try to slow down.

 

Bond is at the table by the time he’s heaved himself into the flat. Scanning over the Sunday papers and surrounded by the smell of buttered toast, he appears quite well: bruised face obscured by reading glasses, stiff bones untroubled as he sits.  He looks up as Max shuffles in, sweaty and blotched.

‘There you are,’ he smiles - nods at the counter. ‘There’s tea in the pot.’

Max pants out his thanks, toeing off his trainers.

‘Is he still asleep?’

‘No,’ says James. He gestures to the corner where, sure enough, Hierocles is eating his breakfast - admirably unconcerned as Theodore lies beside him, grabbing at his tail.

‘Oh. Should we-?’

‘He’s fine,’ says Bond, already returning to an article on interest rates.

Perhaps James’ detached, rustic upbringing is what’s made him so content to leave Theo to his own devices. While Max spends an increasing proportion of his time trying to entertain Theodore with games of peekaboo and educational day trips, James - a product of so many years of being left to roam the Scottish wilderness and play with shotguns while his parents jetted across Europe - is more than happy to let Theo experiment with drinking toilet water while the adults do a cryptic crossword.

When he’s able to tamp down his knee-jerk horror, Max can admit that Bond might be onto something. His own efforts at active parenting have left him with little to show for it other than a frequently over-tired infant and a mental map of all passable baby-changing facilities within Zone 1. And besides: Theo has yet to try and put Hierocles’ tail in his mouth. There’s no immediate need for intervention.

‘How long did he sleep for?’

‘Long enough.’

‘You fed him?’

Bond hums out an affirmative, not looking up.

Max pauses in his tea-pouring. There’s something shifty about Bond’s posture; his interest in his reading material a little too studied.

He narrows his eyes and does his best to search around the kitchen without revealing himself by moving his head.

‘Bond.’

‘Mmm?’ He still won’t meet Max’s eye.

‘What on earth is this?’

It’s oblong - about the size of the pencil-tin he used to take into primary school - and neatly wrapped in green paper with a velvet bow. Behind it, its distorted twin is stretched out in silver on the side of the kettle. The sight of it fills him with a near-irresistible urge to bash the milk carton on the floor until it splits at the seams.

‘Difficult to tell, without opening it,’ says Bond.

Like this, it is only possible to see half of his face. But Max catches half a curled lip and it edges his bafflement towards a darker corner. He breathes in through his nose.

‘It’s from you.’

It’s not a question but, preferably, the answer would still be “no”.

By all rights, it _should_ be "no". True, Bond hadn’t so much as moved an eyebrow at being directed to the spare room when they got back from the hospital - he’d nodded his thanks and sloped away to sleep off the first round of his post-release painkillers: business as usual - but even through the Tramadol fug, he must have realised that something had changed. For the past week, Bond cannot fail to have noticed that Max has clearly been reinstating a polite distance.

The clarity has often been at the expense of the good manners.

“No” is not forthcoming.

Instead, James is ignoring Max’s statement in favour of smirking down at his wanky, Murdoch-owned rag of a useless broadsheet.

Max ungrits his teeth. Clearly, he will be the one to rectify this mess, since Bond has declared himself to be above taking a hint.

‘You can’t,’ he says, bluntly.

‘Can’t what?’ asks James, leaning back in his chair - smile still slung casually across his face. ‘It’s only a birthday present.’

‘I know what it fucking is.’

The smile slides off.

Max rakes his fingers through his hairline, squeezes his eyes tight shut for a moment. He tries to appreciate the cool of his fingertips against his hot scalp.

‘Just take it back to the shop.’ His voice is cramped - squashed into the uneven space between them. ‘Please.’

‘Max-’

‘I’m not arguing with you.’

Theo wails his annoyance as he’s swiped from the ground, cat-game abruptly ended. Max ignores his cries and is about to whisk them both away to his bedroom when Bond - constant in his contrariness, if nothing else - speaks again.

‘What’s changed?’

The words thud against Max’s turned back - dull thumps between his shoulder blades.

‘Nothing. Nothing’s changed.’

Even if he could make it sound convincing enough not to be an insult, it’s too costly an admission that there was enough of a something between them in the first place - was a state of being that could be open to change at all.

And didn’t he just promise to be the one to set the record straight?

‘But I realise that.’ He swallows, saliva still gummy from the cold outdoors. ‘That you have a life that’s separate from him - from us. And I-. I don't want anything to be confused.’

Max shifts Theo on his hip, eases his grizzly cries. When he can bring himself to turn back, Bond’s face is unpleasantly open. A mountainside, once familiar, now freshly stripped of every tree or shrub.

‘You saw the cards,’ says James. ‘When you were at my flat - you saw them.’

Max looks down.

There's little point in pretending he didn't - almost since the moment of touching them, his mind has been alive to risk that Bond would work it out - but the admission marks the end of his attempts to deal tacitly with their situation. The knotted mess is prised from his grasp, lying vulnerable between them - open to any passing fool’s attempt at unpicking.

‘Yes,’ he says, regretfully. ‘I saw them.’

James closes his eyes - a flash of puffy purple, briefly, behind a lens.

‘Max.’ His voice is strained. ‘Surely you know - those were old. Christ, you must know I wouldn’t-’

‘Don’t,’ says Max, unwilling to hear more. Any explanation can only be one that Max has already flipped over in his own mind, deep into a restless night, before discarding it - angry at himself for feeling the need to excuse something he has no right to be aggrieved about. ‘You don’t need to explain anything. It’s not my business - I’m not going to stop you seeing him because you occasionally feel like getting a leg over with an aspiring Eastern European model-’

Bond stands, jerkily. His chair scrapes back on the floor, and Hierocles scarpers.

‘Fuck you.’

Max blinks, strained humour vanishing down his throat.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Don’t insult me,’ says Bond. It’s closed, airless.

‘Insult you?’ Here, Max should find anger to match. Usually he could rely at least on indignance at Bond’s dramatics - at his having the temerity to act the wronged party. But they evade him entirely. Instead, a panicked hopelessness falls over him and suddenly - succinctly - he is lost. Wandering alone in a busy supermarket, sure that he just saw the back of a familiar head, before it ducked far out of sight. ‘Insult _you_?’

Bond is leaning forward slightly, knuckles braced on the kitchen table, supporting his weight. Now that he’s standing, his ailing state is more apparent; figure arched, lopsided. Breaths shallowed by discomfort.

When he speaks, he seethes.

‘You’ve made it abundantly clear you don't think I’m family material,’ he says, voice low. ‘But could you at least do me the courtesy of admitting that it’s your preference that I stay away - not mine.’

‘I’ve never,’ says Max, flinching away. ‘I didn’t say that you weren’t.’

But it’s not true. Even if he hadn’t said it, it’s exactly what he had wanted James to know.

Bond’s pained face turns the kitchen into a blast zone of anguish, obliterating his self-righteous upset of a few moments ago.

‘He’s my son, Max,’ says Bond, and now his gaze is fixed on Theo’s downy head, unable to stomach Max’s pitiful face any longer. ‘He’s _our_ son. And how the hell you can take me for-. Can think that I’ve been out, shagging around - leaving the two people I’m in love with to rot - I will never understand.’

Max’s oesophagus contorts.

Theo lets out a surprised gurgle as he slips down, before Max remembers to tighten his hold again.

‘In love with.’ Max isn’t sure he’s even really repeated it - maybe just moved his lips in the shape, fish-like.

‘I understand it’s an inconvenience to you.’ Bond spits out. ‘But I am. So how can you _dare_ -.’ He cuts himself off, voice cracking, eyes blinking furiously. Purple purple purple, then gone from sight.

The chair clatters on the floor when he limps desperately out the kitchen, into the hallway and away from Max’s blank gaze.

 

A door slams.

Theo wriggles against his chest.

A passing siren wails softly from the street, and Max shouts into the depths of the flat - still not loud enough for Bond to hear.

‘Well how the bloody hell was I supposed to know that?’

 


End file.
